Where the Lamppost Flickers
by LucyCrewe11
Summary: Destiny isn't always a charming affair. Edmund soon learns that his childhood sweetheart, Lucy Pevensie, is fated to become queen of Narnia, but at what cost? Edmund/Lucy/Caspian AU.
1. Stone Walls & Promises

**AN: Yay, I am so happy! The site's finally letting me upload again which means I can post this story! Yay! Yay! Yay! Okay, enough of that, now onto the point of this author note. So, this is an AU fic and the main pairing is going to be Edmund/Lucy/Caspian (well, I can honestly say I've never used THAT three-some before now!) with implied Ramandu's Daughter/Caspian and some overt Peter/Susan, although they aren't going to be the main focus-point of the story. I don't want to spill the beans about the whole plot anymore than the summery has just yet, so you'll all just have to find out as the story goes along. **

Once upon a time....yes, this sounds like a fairytale, doesn't it? A story of morals for the children, perhaps a romance myth for the dreamers. But let it be known straight-out before one more word of this legend is spoken that this is not _quite _a fairy story.

If the story were muddled, if someone added elements of happiness that did not actually exist in full, then yes, it might just be one. Really, it depends on what each reader perceives to be a fairytale; if you think fairytales are cheerful and always filled with natural goodness in its heroes and happiness in its heroines, then you will come to see very quickly that this is most certainly not one. Yet, in case you should look back in time to the oldest of the genre and believe drama, betrayal, despair, and darkness to be the elements that make up a fairytale, maybe you would see a glimmer of a fairytale in this story after all.

Regardless, this is how it began; once upon a time...there was a noble Narnian village in the north-western woods, which was known to all as the Lantern Waste.

Now this village was considered noble because it wasn't generally a commoner's village; many families of noble birth (counts, dukes, marquises, retired knights, and others) had made their home there. In other words, far away though they were from the Narnian Court, the castle of Cair Paravel, it's capitol, most of them would have been heartily welcomed there if they should venture that far (and indeed, from time to time-for various reasons-some of them did).

One household living in the Lantern Waste was the Pevensie family. Count Pevensie, his wife Countess Helen Pevensie, and their two children; Sir Peter Wolf's-bane Pevensie (he was-at fifteen-a knight of Cair Paravel but had come back to the northwest to be with his family and friends until his presence was required) and, of course, little Lady Lucy Pevensie-she was only eight years old.

They all lived in a cottage that, while on the smallish side (for such a wealthy family's estate), was very grandly made. It had been built by Count Pevensie's great great grandfather in the olden days of Narnia and he was very proud of it. It had four square rooms on the first floor, three on the top, and one large roundly-shaped bedroom also on the second floor. The walls were made of thick pine-two of them had crimson tapestries hemmed with gold thread hanging on them-and the doorways were arched and prettily carved. The round-room, which happened to be the children's bedroom, had walls carved with ivy-patterns and a ceiling painted brightly with faux-stars against an ebony-felt backdrop.

The kitchen had an iron hanger that held golden pots above a hard-pressed brass sink with glittering silver knobs and a faucet in the shape of a Lion's head, its mouth open.

Their housemaid, Dame Macready, was taking out the white breakfast china and the gold-plated sausage forks on the morning this story begins, and was cross to see Peter and Lucy weren't up yet. As they were in her charge whenever the Count and Countess were out (they were only out for a morning stroll, but still) of the cottage, she found it frustrating that they weren't already awake, sitting at the table properly, waiting for their breakfast to be served.

"Peter! Lucy!" shouted Dame Macready, knocking on the side of the cookery with a cast-iron soup-spoon. "Get up you lazy bones, or your parents will hear of this! I'll not call again!"

"I bet..." Peter murmured sarcastically, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he sat up in the large petal-and-feather-stuffed bed he shared with Lucy. "And here I thought I'd get _more_ rest returning home, silly me."

Normally, Peter was much more of a morning person, but his training at Cair Paravel had involved some late-night drills, and while he wasn't a night-owl by nature, his senses of day and night had been a bit thrown-off and he was a little short on sleep.

Lucy sat up and smiled at him as she had every morning since he'd come back. Even though it meant slightly more crowded living arrangements and sharing a bed again after having it to herself for a whole half-year, she didn't agree in the least with Dame Macready that having Peter back home was an 'inconvenience'. Maybe he _would_ have done well to stay at court in the presence of the king and his men, but Lucy knew she would have missed him terribly if he had.

Peter was quite possibly her favorite person in the world. He was rather like father, tall and blonde-haired with a deep chest; only more fun because he was younger, faster, a little less serious, and-surprisingly-twice as protective of her. Most of the other young men around Peter's age in the village viewed her as a gnat and didn't want a puny brown-headed pipsqueak no bigger than a bug bite hanging around them, asking endless questions, but Peter was never like that; he always answered her questions with a half-smile and an eyebrow raised to show he was interested. What was more, he never let the other youths send her away, giving them such a vicious look that they backed down and flashed Lucy the kindest smiles they could muster up at the last minute.

"Good morning, Lu." yawned Peter.

"Morning," Lucy's cheerful voice rang back.

"I had such a funny dream last night," said Peter, holding back a chuckle as he started wake up more, his mood drastically improving.

Lucy tilted her head and curled up next to him as if he was about to tell her a story. "What did you dream?"

"I dreamt you were at Cair Paravel playing with one of our instructors, Sir Reepicheep-he's a talking mouse-and you picked him right up and cuddled him in front of the whole court." Peter laughed, knowing it was silly but not horribly unlikely. "You'd understand if you ever met Sir Reepicheep-he's a very dignified little chap."

"Is it nice at court?" asked Lucy, curious.

"Hmm?" said Peter absently, stretching his legs.

She repeated herself.

"I suppose so." said Peter, shrugging his shoulders. "The eastern sea is very beautiful at sun-set and the water is clear as glass, you would have liked it."

"I think I want to see it some day." Lucy decided, smoothing out the skirt of her white silk nightgown.

"You will," Peter promised. "I might even take you there myself one time if I go back."

"You have to go back eventually, you're a knight." Lucy reminded him a little sadly.

"There are plenty of knights, Lu." Peter pointed out.

"But you're the king's favourite," Lucy said, dead serious.

Peter's eyes widened. "Says who?"

"Cousin Eustace, that's who." Lucy prattled on. "He says you're King Caspian's favourite because you 'positively suck up' to him-but I don't believe the last part."

Peter threw his head back and laughed and laughed until Lucy started to feel a little scared.

"Oh, bother Eustace! Lucy, don't listen to what our cousin says." he told her, still shaking from laughter.

"You _are _his favourite, though, aren't you?"

"I am one of the king's trusted knights, there are no favourties, a king of Narnia is not allowed to be partial."

Lucy let that go, but deep down she was still convinced that her wonderful brother was the favourite, no matter what he himself had to say about it.

"Is the queen as lovely as everyone says she is?" Lucy wanted to know.

"You asked me that before," Peter chuckled.

"I forget the answer." Lucy said honestly, her eyes wide with innocence.

"She has star-blood in her veins, Ramandu's own daughter, so yes, she is quite beautiful." Peter answered, remembering the lovely golden-haired, milky-faced queen who had knighted him during the official ceremony. "Ramandu is an old retired star, grandfather might know of him."

Their grandfather lived in Ettinsmoor and was an expert on stars and planets.

"Is she prettier than Susan Philippe?" Lucy asked, not actually meaning to tease her brother, but inadvertently doing so anyway.

Peter's face reddened. To most people, the queen of Narnia was a good deal fairer than Lady Susan Philippe of the Lantern Waste was, but Sir Peter was rather bias. Susan, with her long dark hair and regal smile, was the most beautiful young woman in all of the western woods, and he had, since a very tender age, something of a crush on her. He hated to admit it but from the moment Susan (only a year his junior) hit puberty, he'd developed a tendency to forget something in her presence-that something was his own name.

"I, um, didn't notice," said Peter pretend-apathetically, after a pause.

"Lucy! Peter!" bellowed Dame Macready from the kitchen again.

"We're coming, Madame!" Peter called down, rolling his eyes. "Come, let's get ready to go down before the Macready faints from screaming so much."

Lucy giggled into her palm and climbed out of the bed, her feet sinking into the soft purple-dyed sheepskin rug on the floor.

At breakfast, their parents returned from their walk and sat with the children. This did not happen every day, so it was something of a treat for Lucy who admired both her mother and father deeply, and sometimes regretted that they had hired the stern, sour-faced Dame Macready when they seemed perfectly suitable to raise children on their own.

"I was thinking," Count Pevensie said, swallowing down a large bite of bacon and eggs, "that I ought to work on getting a new wall up in the children's bed-room. Lucy will be a young lady before we know it, after all, and she'll want her privacy then."

Little Lucy did not think she would ever grow up; like most children she saw twenty as elderly and Peter's age as middle-aged; it seemed to her that she would stay eight for an awfully long time, and she was glad of it, being in no real hurry to grow up anyway.

As for Peter, he was more concerned with the image of his father, a gentle-bred man who could knit and speak six different languages, as well as write beautiful compositions, but couldn't hold a hammer correctly, trying to get nails into boards for the walls. It was upsetting.

It wasn't that Count Pevensie was a wimp, or a weakling in the least, he was actually a very strong man-brave, too, having seen a few dozen battles in his lifetime-it was just that he had no skill with tools whatsoever and refused to admit this fact. He also could get stubborn and say it wasn't that he couldn't afford to hire someone, it was a matter of manly pride and providing for one's family. Helen had learned to be silent whenever he started on this predicable rant, but Peter had fancied himself more grown-up since his return from Cair Paravel and thought it would be a rather cowardly thing to do, not to speak up.

"Father, please don't try to do it yourself, just hire the beavers-Mr. Beaver does wonderful work, you can ask Mr. Tumnus the faun if you don't believe me." Peter pleaded with him, taking a sip of cold apple-juice.

"Don't be silly, son, when a man needs to provide for his family-" he started.

Helen winced, the skin under the wire-thin golden ruby-chip-studded band around her forehead crinkling with displeasure.

Lucy blurted out, "Daddy, you'll hurt yourself again."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Count Pevensie, his face suddenly draining of colour. "And what do you mean 'again'?"

"Oh, don't you remember? When you tried to make a doll-cradle for Lucy when she was five?" Helen chimed in, daring to speak now. "You sliced your whole index finger open with a chisel."

"Peter put his hands over my ears while you screamed," Lucy added innocently, still to that very day not understanding exactly why Peter's palms had clamed over her ears so rapidly.

Helen smiled at that and winked at her son who half-grinned back, chuckling down at his plate.

Glancing down at the scar on his finger, a cloud passed over Count Pevensie's face; there was no doubt about it, he remembered. "I think I will send a message to Mr. Beaver after all, he does some good work."

"I think that's a fine idea," said Helen supportively.

"Mummy?" said Lucy.

"Yes?"

"May I go out and play after breakfast?"

"Don't you have chores?" Helen asked her.

"I'll take care of them, she's only eight, I think you ought to let her go as long as she promises not to wander in the uninhabited parts of the woods." Peter said, as always, speaking up in Lucy's favor.

She beamed at her brother and looked over excitedly at her mother, "So may I go? I'll be safe, I promise."

"Peter, you spoil her terribly!" Helen warned him with a sternness that was not completely heart-felt.

Count Pevensie, wiping a few toast-crumbs off of his gray leather tunic, had no protests. When he was a boy around Peter's age, he had had a little sister only about six or seven years old who had died in a rather tragic carriage accident, and thus had a soft-spot for Peter's undying affection for Lucy.

"Be _safe_," Peter repeated as he always did, feeling that he had to guilt Lucy into ignoring her unbridled curiosity, which was always the hardest part of her to keep up with.

"I will be," Lucy promised again, embracing her parents and standing on tip-toe to kiss her brother's cheek before she dashed out the door, remembering-much to Peter's relief-to grab her red woolen cloak to keep herself warm against the chill woodsy air.

Her cheeks were slightly flushed from cold and excitement as she dashed along through the trees, passing a few familiar cottages and manors along the way. She waved to the beavers (one of which was the same Mr. Beaver her father was going to hire), for they were her friends and she had visited their dam and had hot fish on more than one occasion, when she spotted them gnawing a stack of fallen tree branches.

"Good day, Lady Lucy," Mr. Tumnus trotted by her, his goaty feet leaving little hoof-prints in the rich black soil below him.

"Good morning, Mr. Tumnus!"

"Hello, Lucy." Susan Philippe walked by wearing a long-sleeved sky-blue dress with a curved, lace-collar that looked new.

"Hullo, Susan."

"How is your family?" she asked politely; Susan was always polite.

"We are well, thank you," Lucy recited so prettily it was a shame her mother and Dame Macready had not heard-it would have pleased them. "And how is yours?"

"We are well, too." said Susan, finishing up with the formalities. "Is your brother at the cottage still?"

"Yes, of course!" said Lucy.

"I think I will pay him a visit, then." she decided, biting back a teeny-not quite proper-grin that had found its way to her lips at the thought of Peter Wolf's Bane. Whether or not he was the king's favourite knight, he was certainly _hers_. But, then, she was as bias in his favor as he could be about her cleverness and beauty. "Mind you keep out of danger, Lucy, if you see a strange gray wolf roaming in the darkest parts of the forest, please, for the love of Aslan, don't try to make friends with it!"

I did that _one _time, Lucy thought, pouting to herself, and it isn't as if Peter didn't kill him when he attacked me.

This was, actually, where the name Wolf's Bane had come from; from the traveling story of Peter saving his-at the time-four year old sister from being eating by a wolf. It was quite a popular story back at Cair Paravel, and he heard it so many times during his training there that he thought he would be sick if anyone ever said the name 'Maugrim' to him again.

After a while of peaceful wandering and greetings, Lucy found herself alone in a thicker part of the woods that came before a little clearing she was familiar with. She liked this clearing because there was a wide, lovely roaring brook that ran right through the middle of it. The village children often went there to play and catch small frogs, or else to sit on the little three-foot high stone wall that stood around the deepest parts of the brook.

Today there was only one child there, a surly-faced boy of about ten years old with his short dark hair ruffled and uncombed. Judging from the dirty-looking state of the back of his ears-at least two shades darker than his actual pale skin, messily speckled this way and that-it didn't look as if he had properly washed his face or neck, either, but Lucy-lucky for him-was not a stickler for such matters.

The boy's name was Edmund Philippe and he was Susan's troublesome younger brother. Something of the so-called trouble-maker in his family, and rather a stranger amongst the other village children, he didn't have many friends. Lucy, however, in spite of the fact that he gave her no reason at all that she should, liked him.

It really made very little sense that she had formed such an attachment to a boy of Edmund's demeanor when you really thought about it, considering how his treatment of her was nothing like her sainted brother. Edmund was cross, bad-tempered, and he could be spiteful. There were moments when even Lucy felt vexed with him and almost wished they were not friends, knowing even in her young age that he did not really deserve the affections she had for him.

To be fair, he was not all bad. Sometimes he was very nearly all good. Upon occasion he had glanced at Lucy with a look that didn't seem at all like the Edmund the village knew and generally disliked, almost a real smile. And once he had given her a peppermint when she was looking glum and he had been in a good mood. Lucy had never forgotten that peppermint.

In contrast, when he was his ordinary sulky self and did not want some little girl with wide friendly eyes and a fascination for following him around the whole darned village, even climbing trees with him (he hadn't thought girls liked to climb trees, but apparently they-or at least Lucy-did), he was borderline cruel. He'd say things he didn't really mean and growl at her, baring his teeth as if he were more animal than human boy. For his own safety, he had given up throwing things at her (Peter had beaten him severely when Lucy returned to the cottage with wet dirt dripping down her face and bruises on one cheek from a hard twig and a large number of mud-balls hitting her, and then Count Pevensie had gotten upset and reported the matter to Edmund's stepmother who was very fond of Lucy, and so sent him to bed without supper), but he could still be mean without being physical.

He need not have worried about getting in trouble again, and if he'd known how deep Lucy's childish devotion to him really went, he would have understood why this was. She had been heart-broken when she found out how badly her Edmund, her dear friend, had been punished-forgetting his wickedness to her and refusing to take supper herself that night, simply because she felt bad eating when he wouldn't have a single bite until the morning.

One might rightly wonder why Edmund was so unkind. Well, part of it was his own fault and no one else's, that cannot be denied, and he for ever felt guilty for that part of himself, even after he out-grew it. But most of his spitefulness came from another source, one that Lucy was vaguely familiar with and pitied him deeply over.

His stepmother, Lady Philippe, was half-Calormene, and while she _did _love both the country of Narnia and her two stepchildren dearly, she had spent most of her childhood in Calormen and had been engrossed in the idea it promoted that it was better than anywhere else. She truly believed that the education there was the finest available and with the passing of time became bitterly disappointed that Susan had never been sent to Calormen to learn. So she pestered her husband endlessly that Edmund might be sent there.

Finally he had said, "By the Lion, woman, will you give me no peace? Do whatever you please, send my son where ever you will, just leave me out of it and let me be!"

And just like that, Edmund was to be sent away.

In those days, he and Lucy, though they were very, very young, had almost had a real friendship that wasn't one-sided, meeting up once in a while to play together. One time he'd snuck out of his nursery window during naptime and visited her at the cottage. They played with one another for two hours before someone finally found Edmund and dragged him back home with a sound scolding. That was _before _he was to go to Calormen.

When he was gone, Lucy's tiny heart missed him and she tried very hard for his sake not to let her memories of their games dim, but despite her best efforts they did fade into shorter moments and she couldn't remember what his voice had sounded like back then, before it became sarcastic.

Calormen turned out to be a bad experience for Edmund. While he spoke very little of what had really happened to him there, two things professed to the true horror he had endured.

First, as soon as he could spell out words (a quick learner by desperate motivation) he wrote a letter to his father saying that if they did not let him come back home, if they did not take him away from the boarding school in Calormen, he would kill himself.

The letters were so dark in nature that no one, not even his stepmother, doubted Edmund was serious and would indeed take his own life if something was not done as quickly as possible.

Susan was especially effected by the content of the letters (one of which Edmund had secretly sent to her just in case which said in wobbly writing: '_Goodbye, Su_'), so much so that, faced with her little brother's threats of suicide, she told her father and stepmother that if they did not bring him back at once, she would go and get him herself. For her insolence, her father had smacked her hard on the mouth, but he felt so guilty about it afterwards that he wept and shed many tears.

Long story short, Edmund, now an older boy, was allowed to come home to the Lantern Waste.

Second, the Tarkaan who was the headmaster of the school Edmund had gone to was eventually declared a mad-man and was sent away to a mental institution.

When Lucy had learned that Edmund was back from Calormen, recalling her old playmate with a shiver of excitement, thinking it would all go back to the way it had been when they were smaller, she naturally wanted to see him.

Strangely enough, no one would let her. Peter's face was grave and he looked anxious, changing the subject when she asked about Edmund. Susan, when she cornered her near Tumnus's house, would say nothing, only that she was sorry but Lucy could not see Edmund just yet-he was unwell.

Her cousin Eustace had been walking by after Susan got away and Lucy ran after him.

"Eustace, is it true that Edmund is unwell?"

He scoffed, "No, he's just got a split-lip and bruises all over his body."

She backed away, not liking that news one bit. "What?"

"The Tarkaan beat him, the older Calormene boys, too."

And from that moment onwards, it was as if Lucy's soul-her very life-had been intertwined around Edmund's in an unbreakable fashion. From her pity, a deep, one-sided love grew.

Now he sat on the stone wall itself, looking steadily down into the murky-with-shadows water below, not even acknowledging Lucy.

"Good morning, Edmund!" Lucy called to him.

He grunted, still not even bothering to turn his head and so much as glance at her.

If Lucy had been a little older, she would have known from the way he was conducting himself, from the stiff way he sat with his blood-shot eyes already red and cross that morning for whatever reason, that she should not have spoken to him at all.

It would be lovely to report that the brave, innocent little girl that was Lucy had a wave of good sense hit her like a ton of bricks, nodded, left Edmund alone, and went on her merry way, skipping and singing through the woods, making it home just in time for tea without a single bruise or scratch on her body. But, then, if that were the case, maybe there would be no story.

Climbing up beside him, kicking off her shoes, and sitting in a ruffled manner at his side with her bare feet banging lightly against the side of the stone wall from time to time, she began to talk to him.

"Shut up," said Edmund after listening to her prattle on about her morning and how she had seen his sister and the beavers and Tumnus.

Although she did shoot him a faded glare (that he didn't even notice, by the way) and pursed her lips angrily, she obeyed and stopped talking.

Her presence was still cheerful and happy when all Edmund wanted was to be alone and dark, bitter and cold, which irked him terribly.

"Lucy, go home."

"I don't want to."

He inhaled deeply. "Your brother will be waiting with your tea, wont he?"

"Not yet, and your sister's gone to visit him just now, anyway."

Being older than Lucy, Edmund knew better than her that it meant the two love-birds were flirting and smiling at each other in a demented fashion, so he said nothing more, still hoping Lucy would go away on her own.

Edmund's stomach rumbled; he could have had breakfast that morning, but he'd been sour and complaining, had none of it, and was now facing the consequences of that. Sometimes Lucy's brother gave her a snack to take with her; suddenly his interest in the cheery little girl increased.

"Have you brought anything to eat?"

"No," said Lucy. "I've only just had breakfast."

The interest was gone. "Can't you go and sit by someone else?"

"You're the only one here, Ed." Lucy pointed out obliviously.

"I meant _go_ someplace else," he said meanly.

"I don't want to, can't I sit here with you? I'll be quiet, I promise."

He willed himself not to scream.

"Are you going to play chess later? Peter taught me-"

"I thought you promised to be _quiet_!" Edmund turned and glared at her so hard that if she were a very little bit younger, she would have cried under the grip of such a wicked glower.

"What did they do to you," said Lucy, unable to stop herself. "Back in Calormen...did they hurt you very badly?"

"No," Edmund lied. "At least it wasn't boring like this place...stepmother scolds, father frowns like anything, and Susan's so bossy, I'd like to run away."

He wasn't serious, however much he did sound it, but Lucy didn't know the difference. "Oh, Ed, you're going away?"

"Yes." he said, just to upset her, thinking she might run away in tears and leave him be.

"Where will you go?" she kicked her foot against the wall again.

"Ettinsmoor, maybe."

"I've a grandfather in Ettinsmoor," Lucy told him.

"How nice," Edmund sneered insincerely.

"I'll come, too, Ed."

"What?" That got his attention. "Come with me? Are you batty?"

"I will so come; I want to see the marsh-wiggles and the giants and learn all about-"

"Well, I've just decided not to go to Ettinsmoor after all, then." Edmund retorted, trying to think of a place a girl wouldn't like to go. "I'm going away on a ship in the east and sailing to the end of the world all by myself."

Unfortunately for him, this only excited Lucy's believing heart all the more so. "Oh, that sounds like fun-do you think we'll find Aslan? I know his country isn't the sort you can sail to-at least, I don't think so-but we might run into him perhaps-"

"Will you shut up? I'm not going east, you're out of your mind."

Lucy thought of reaching for his one of his hands, noticing that they were shaking, but he had such a venomous expression in his eyes that she didn't dare. It was almost easier trying to make friends with Maugrim-before he tried to eat her, of course.

"I'm hungry," Edmund said, his stomach rumbling again from lack of breakfast.

"Go and get something to eat, then." Lucy told him quietly.

"I don't want to go home, stepmother will scold me for not doing any studying, you bring me something to eat."

"Me?" said Lucy, clearly confused. "Where will I get something for you to eat?"

"Don't be stupid, more than half the village would give you food if you asked."

A new thought struck Lucy; that he was trying to get rid of her so that he could go away to Ettinsmoor, or the sailing port to travel east, or where ever, by himself. She would have none of that.

"Come with me," said Lucy reasonably, almost daring to take his hand now but changing her mind at the last second because he seemed angry still. "Mr. Tumnus will give us an early tea."

"I don't want to go to Mr. Tumnus, I want to stay here," Edmund told her crossly, "_you _go."

"Not unless you come." Lucy declared unwaveringly.

"Lucy, I swear if you wont make yourself useful, or at the very least bloody leave me alone, I'll...I'll-" he tried to think of a good punishment for her being a helpless goose. "-I'll shove you right off this wall into the water."

Lucy's eyes filled with tears. "You wouldn't." She still believe in his goodness.

"Stop that noise!" barked Edmund, furious that she was crying like a baby over his silly, previously-empty threat. At that moment, so fed-up with her, loathing nearly everyone-including himself-he reached out and pushed her off the wall.

She hadn't been ready, not even a little bit, and the gasp that escaped her little throat as she fell into the brook, not-at-all-far way down though it was, made Edmund's stone heart turn into flesh again, and he felt horrible.

What have I done? he thought, biting his lower lip, his eyelids brimming over with glistening tears. He was ready to apologize the moment the poor little girl rose up drenched and shivering from the brook, but when she didn't, his returned heart almost stopped beating altogether. The realization came like a punch in the face, a smack across the mouth: Lucy couldn't swim. Lucy couldn't swim and that part of the brook was deep.

"Lucy!" he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. Nothing for it, he held his nose and jumped into the brook after her.

Swimming around franticly, he thought he wouldn't find her in time. How had the little girl sunk down so quickly? Was she made of lead or something?

Unable to hold his breath any longer, he had to surface. "Lucy?"

A little ways away, a head popped up from under the water; a little girl's head with brown hair stuck all over her round cherub-like face.

At first he was overjoyed and started to swim towards her, about to demand of her how on earth she had managed to save herself (perhaps she had found a high-up rock under there and was standing on it?), when he noticed what was holding her up. A large, somber-eyed golden Lion with a wet flowing mane and a disappointed expression seemingly directed at Edmund. His lips were attached to the back of Lucy's dress, pulling the gasping, apparently unconscious girl to shore.

This Lion, who Edmund now figured was Aslan, the great Lion of Narnia, placed Lucy down as gently as a mother cat puts down her kitten, then wadded back into the water after the boy who'd shoved her in.

Edmund shut his eyes and winced. Surely he was in for it now! But the Lion, wadding to-and-fro, coming ever closer to him, did not roar or snarl; and his teeth were only bared for a passing moment.

"Aslan," Edmund bowed, nearly losing his footing and falling under the brook with a mighty splash.

The Lion reached out with his paw and steadied him. "Human child, you have been cruel."

He hung his head, his damp, dark curls sticking limply to the side of his forehead. "Will she live?"

"The girl will be fine, Edmund, but ware of your own self from this point on." said Aslan; then he boxed the boy's ears well and truly with his paw, not meanly to hurt him but simply to remind him that he was in disgrace.

On the muddy blank next to the wall, Lucy's swollen watery eyes fluttered open and she could see Edmund and Aslan standing in the brook talking. She could not hear what they were saying, but she knew it was not for her own ears anyway.

When they were finished, they returned to her and Edmund helped her to her feet, begging for forgiveness, which she gave him at once.

Aslan gave her a Lion-kiss on the forehead, threw back his mane, and ran away.

"Oh, Lucy," Edmund whispered, embracing her. "I'm so sorry."

"I know," she said, rubbing her sore left arm with one hand and stroking her aching throat with the other.

"Poor thing," said Edmund, looking broken. "It must have hurt so badly, and you're soaked."

"It did." Lucy wouldn't lie.

"I promise I will never hurt you again." Edmund swore, grasping at her hands.

She kissed his cheek in return and said, "Please don't."

"I'll never, not ever," and he meant what he said.

Lucy returned to the cottage for tea eventually, alone (Edmund, in spite of his promise was afraid to show himself before Peter with Lucy in such a state, and choose his stepmother's nagging instead), and Lady Susan was still there.

"Oh, by Aslan!" she cried at the top of her voice. "What happened to you, Lucy?"

"Lu!" Peter stood up and rushed to her side, seeing how dirty and tired and half-strangled she looked. "Are you all right? What happened?"

_Edmund pushed me off the stone wall next to the brook..._ All that came out, for she refused to lie and would not blame him after his repentance and solemn promise, was a murmured, trembling-lipped, "...brook...wall...Aslan pulled...I'm tired now."

"Oh poor little thing!" Susan grabbed a wool plaid blanket and threw it over Lucy shoulders. "She must be freezing. Do let's get her something to eat, Peter, and some tea to drink."

Lucy curled up by the fireplace, was held tightly by her brother, and was given a piping hot silver mug of tea with twice as much sugar as she was usually allowed, and sneezed.

**AN: Please review and tell me if anyone likes this story so far! Okay? **


	2. The Strongest Lights

No one understood why a sullen, seemingly selfish boy like Edmund Philippe was concerned over a chill that Lucy Pevensie, a little lady a couple years younger than himself, had caught. No one, that is, except for Lucy Pevensie. She alone understood, knowing that he blamed himself-for pushing her into the brook-and that was why he came over every day to see if she was doing any better. Once, he gathered a small bunch of daises for her.

At seeing the daisies in Edmund's hand, Peter murmured, "I must be dreaming."

Helen was surprised, but being a well-bred lady, she kissed the Philippe boy's forehead and told him that he was a perfect darling, and that if he would like to come in and see Lucy for a while, he might.

He did come in; but he couldn't endure a long visit. He hated to listen to Lucy's hollow cough and see her-cheerful as ever through it all-with red eyes and sallow cheeks.

Thankfully, Edmund's worst fears (that she would get worse and perhaps become gravely ill and it would all be his fault) never did come true. Lucy was well enough to go out-of-doors again within two and a half weeks.

At first Peter always went out with her, guiding his still slightly weakened sister by the hand, but in time he began to let her go off on her own just as she used to do, under sworn oath that she would be more careful.

When Lucy was a free girl, allowed to make up her own mind as to what she would do during the day again, she and Edmund became inseparable.

Early each morning they took their breakfasts-sometimes Edmund just grabbed a roll on his way out the door at the crack of dawn-and they'd meet each other at the lamppost for which the village of Lantern Waste was named.

Often it was still dark out and whichever of them got there last was always delighted to find the other waiting for them under the warm yellow light. Weather didn't seem to matter much to them; if it snowed, they met; and if it rained, they met. When they returned to their homes, some days damp, others simply exhausted and panting for breath, they were scolded. Such scoldings never reached their hearts, for each morning they would simply be at it once more, playing from dawn to dusk.

When the hot summer months came along, it was Edmund who taught Lucy to swim so that if anyone else ever pushed her into the brook (though he swore he would help Peter beat the living daylights out of the fool who dared to try it) she would be able to rescue herself.

Lucy was a quick learner, but she still made mistakes; and for three whole blazing days the western woods rang with Edmund's bellows of, "For the love of the Lion, Lu, stop dog-paddling! Keep your head up! You can kick harder than that! No, no, no, not like _that_; you're splashing water into my face!" until she got the knack of it.

They never seemed to meet up with any other friends in those days, and perhaps that was only for the better, because none of Lucy's friends liked Edmund in spite of the fact that he was becoming rather a different boy than he'd used to be. Besides, the two of them could get into enough trouble on their own.

Things went on like that until a month or so after Edmund turned eleven. By then his stepmother was overwhelmed with grief and disappointment for her boy. Susan had been employed as a sort of governess for him; but she was more interested in new styles in clothing and in flirting with Sir Peter than she was in keeping her wild-spirited little brother in line. She herself, while very clever and mature in other things, was not wonderful at school-work, and after she-with strenuous effort-managed to teach Edmund the meaning of the word 'gastrovascular', she gave up trying to reel the boy in altogether.

Weeping, the stepmother said to her husband, "Darling, Eddie is turning into an uneducated thug running around all day, please, my love, do something!"

"I'm sure it's not half so bad as you make out, sweetheart." said Edmund's father with a click of his tongue. "We tried sending him away to school before-upon your advice, mind you-and that turned out lovely, didn't it?"

Sobbing harder, she cried, "I beg mercy, husband, for that folly, the blame is mine and I truly am sorry; but _must _he grow up...like...like this? I've seen wild dogs and stray cats with longer attention spans than our boy is developing. The only thing that can hold his interest for more than five seconds is that little Pevensie girl. She's a delightful child, you know I think the world of her, but for how much longer do you think her parents intend to let her romp around endlessly in the woods with our Edmund? She'll be older someday, then she'll be like Susan, thinking of young men and gowns and balls all the time, and our Edmund will still be-"

"Well, what do you suggest?" thundered Edmund's father grumpily, tired of his wife's nagging, folding his arms across his chest. "I shan't send him to Calormen again so that I'll have to hear one day that my son is a dead man."

"No, no," wailed the stepmother, "I'd never ask that again! To send him there? No, he's been through a trauma, that must be respected, but there are some very nice schools in Ettinsmoor..."

"I think he will run away before he goes off to a boarding school again," said his father, taking out his favourite pipe and filling it with tobacco leaves. He knew his son.

"What of sending him to the court of Archenland, then?" asked the stepmother. "If he goes there...I don't know...two, maybe three, years perhaps-learns from tutors and such what is expected of him as a proper gentleman-then comes back here...Sir Peter could then take him on as a squire...eleven is too young for that, I think, but not fourteen...have him come back and become a squire when he's fourteen and more mature. Then, we can see if we can't work our way up to a knighthood for him."

And, thinking it over, smoking his pipe very heavily, taking puff after puff, the words of his half-Calormene wife seemed good to him, and he agreed that Edmund should be sent to Archenland.

When Lucy heard the news from Susan, she was grieved and cried for the sheer thought of being without her best companion.

Peter patted her on the head and tried-to no avail-to console her. Helen said she was a poor thing and made hot chocolate for her daughter while Count Pevensie tried making funny-faces to cheer her up. At nearly nine years old, Lucy did not find this amusing, and only cried harder so that Peter glared at his father, who shrugged his shoulders in confusion. At any rate, he stopped making the faces. Dame Macready suddenly became kinder, too; she spoke in a softer voice and didn't scold or chide Lucy for nearly a week.

For a few days before Edmund's departure to Archenland, Lucy began to nurse some sort of fancy that she would be allowed to go with him; but of course the grown-ups would not agree to this.

"Why not?" Lucy had asked, pursing her lips in an obstinate way she couldn't often manage. And when she did manage it, it was not very pretty to see.

"Because you're too young to go away to a foreign court on your own, Lu." Her father answered with a hearty sigh. "You know that."

"But Edmund's going." she protested.

"Edmund is a little older than you are, sweetie." Helen put her oar in.

"Only by two years!"

"Lu," said Peter sternly, rubbing his temples "you can't go with him and that's that."

"What Edmund's parents do is none of our concern." Count Pevensie added, secretly thinking that sending Edmund away wasn't the best idea after what had happened in Calormen. Archenland was a nice country, but a boy who had gone through what Edmund had faced was likely not to see it that way.

Frustrated, Lucy ran outside to the lamppost; she knew Edmund would be there. Surely he was upset, too.

When they met up, he was blinking back tears, which he made go away because he didn't want her to see him cry. He didn't want to see her cry either, so he lied and said his parents had changed their minds and that even if they hadn't, he wouldn't have gone.

"They might have made you go," Lucy said quietly, looking down.

Laughing, Edmund lifted Lucy's chin up with the tips of his fingers. "Ha! _Make_ me? No one can make _me_ do anything!"

Seeing how earnest and sure of himself his brown eyes seemed when he said that, Lucy grinned from ear to ear and said he was the cleverest boy in the world-which, of course, he liked to hear (what eleven year old boy _doesn't _like to have his ego boosted by an adoring younger playmate who thinks he can do anything?).

The two played together as they had every day before that, but Lucy couldn't help noticing something amiss with Edmund who just shook his head whenever she asked him about it, and then forced a smile or a wink.

Evidently, his parents could-and did-make him go to Archenland, and as his carriage pulled away, Lucy wept and followed it as far as the end of the village when she knew she could go after it no longer. There was a small meadow there dotted with little yellow flowers and tall reeds; she sat in the muddy grass watching the carriage vanish from sight, taking her friend far away, and pulled her knees to her chest. A faint _clink_ was heard a few feet away; Edmund had tossed something back to her out of the carriage window.

Lucy stood up, never minding her stained stockings and dirty dress, to find whatever it was he had tossed. At last she found a small gold chain with a pendant in the shape of a silver dagger with a faux-copper hilt hanging from it. She kissed the hilt and fastened the tiny gold clasp around her neck.

"Goodbye, Ed." she whispered.

For the whole duration of the time Edmund Philippe was away in Archenland, Lucy never took the dagger-necklace off. She wore it when she bathed, when she ate, when she roamed through the woods, when she-with some reluctance-played with the other village children, and even when she slept at night.

Speaking of night, she sometimes had strange dreams that he had come back and couldn't find his way. In her dreams Edmund could see only up to the lamppost and the village was black for him, so that he couldn't find neither his house nor her cottage. She took, as a result, to lighting a bright candle and putting it in the highest window each night-just in case. Then in the mornings, she would blow it out, at first somewhat disappointed, but soon as part of a mere routine.

It became a jest in the village that Lady Lucy's candle twinkled from the cottage window every night; younger girls of about five even made up a limerick about 'Lucy's little light' and jumped rope to it. Not that she cared; she was too busy trying not to miss him all the time.

Of course she still had some fun. When days after he'd left turned to weeks, she started to realize that she hadn't played with her old friend Marjorie in a long time, and though it wasn't quite the same, would meet up with her and play games. This friendship lasted steadily until Lucy over-heard Marjorie making fun of the candle. It was one thing to have sweet little ones playing a game to it; rather another to have a close friend mock it and call it a 'childish thing'. Taking it as offence, not only to herself but to Edmund as well, Lucy refused to play with her anymore after that.

"But, child," Helen tried to reason with her gently; "she is a dear friend of yours, surely some forgiveness-"

Lucy shook her head. "I cannot forget what she said."

"How did you come to hear it in the first place?" Peter asked her, trying to help Dame Macready light a fire in the parlor fireplace.

Turning red, Lucy admitted she had been eavesdropping.

"Marjorie loves you," said Peter in a disappointed tone of voice. "You know she's embarrassed around the other, older girls sometimes."

"Do you mean we might have been great friends all our lives if I hadn't heard that?" Lucy said, feeling a little sad just then.

Peter shrugged, sticking a finger in his mouth trying to suck out a wood splinter from the unlit firewood. "Maybe, who knows?"

"I suppose it was bad of me," said Lucy; but she still couldn't forgive Marjorie. She might have in time if only it hadn't been about Edmund. It was just that he was too sensitive and dear a subject with her, as were all things-like the candle-related to him.

Then, a good while after Lucy's twelfth birthday, on the third day of winter, when the air was cold and smelled like snow, Susan came running to the cottage holding out a message that stated Edmund would be coming home that day.

Peter was delighted; he had already promised the Philippe family he would take the lad on as his squire, and he was happier still at the thought of Lucy's joy. He laughed happily, embraced Susan, lifted her up, and spun her around; planting a kiss on her cheek for good measure that ended up making them both blush furiously.

"I've got to tell Lucy!" he exclaimed, pulling away from Susan.

"Where is she?" Susan asked, glancing around for the Pevensie girl and not finding her.

"Upstairs in the bedroom, I think." said Peter, taking the letter in hand. "May I borrow this, Su?"

"Yes, of course!" Susan laughed, giving him a slight nudge. "Go tell her at once-she'll be thrilled."

"Boy, I don't care if you are a knight, I wouldn't care if you were the bloody king of Narnia himself, what have I told you about running in this house like that?" Dame Macready snapped when she saw him dashing towards the stairs in a frightful hurry, tossing a dishtowel into the sink with an angry expression on her face.

"I've wonderful news!" exclaimed Peter, beaming, unwilling to let Dame Macready lessen the joy. "News that is going to make Lucy very happy!"

"Is that any excuse-" she started.

But he hadn't heard; he had already fled to spread joy.

"What's this news?" she called after him, though he couldn't hear her.

Upstairs, Lucy was turned with her back to the stairwell, her front facing the window as she held a small ginger cat she had adopted as a pet recently in her arms. She was watching the sky; it looked just ready for snow, which would have been such a treat, but it wasn't snowing yet-which, for someone like Lucy, was rather a tease.

"Lucy!" gasped Peter breathlessly, clamoring up behind her. "Edmund's coming back to the Lantern Waste!"

Had the years passed so slowly and yet so quickly at the same time? Lucy turned around slowly and faced him, still holding her cat. "Really?"

If a person hadn't seen Lucy in a couple of years, it might have taken them a few double-takes to recognize her; she looked a little different now. Her brown hair-once shorter-had grown long and fair, and while her face was still on the roundish side (she still had some baby-fat on her) it looked closer to pretty than to 'cute'. She was also a bit taller and her wide, innocent eyes held the bud of a new expression not yet graced upon her inside of them, ready to bloom in a few more years.

"Yes, I'm positive!" Peter assured her, grasping one of her hands and slipping Susan's letter into the other one.

Lucy read it once, then twice, almost with the same vigor of pleasure she showed when a letter from Edmund arrived, upon occasion, especially for her and not for other eyes.

Lucy couldn't stop smiling; then she couldn't stop crying.

"Lucy, don't cry." Peter laughed through tears that sprang up into his own eyes. "Aren't you glad?"

"He's coming back today," Lucy said to herself, trying to resister the information.

"Yes," said Peter slowly, taking her expression to be shock.

Lucy grinned, wept again, and quickly placed the yowling ginger cat into Peter's arms. "I know where he'll want to meet me."

With that she fled, rushing down the stairs and out of the cottage passed a fed-up Dame Macready and smiling Susan Philippe, almost forgetting to wave to them as she made a break for it.

Upstairs, Peter scratched the ginger cat between the ears. "I think she took that rather well, don't you?"

Lucy's long pale grayish-silver dress with embroidered crimson roses along the hem and sleeves flew out behind her, as did her wind-whipped hair, as she ran happily through the trees, panting under the tall iron lamppost. Legend said it had been there since the dawn of time, but Lucy didn't know if that was true, nor did she really care; all she knew was that it had been there since the dawn of her friendship with Edmund. He wasn't there yet; so she waited. The air still smelled of snow-much more sharply now-maybe it would come soon.

The sky dimmed and the gray light of the cloud-covered sun turned purple-pink, coloured by the twilit hour, and the yellow of the lamppost's light brightened. Lucy's hope almost began to sink, thinking he had maybe forgotten that this was where they always met. Yet, even as she turned around, gently placing one hand on the dagger-pedant, a snowflake fell on her nose, and just in front of her stood a dark-haired young man of fourteen.

"That's _never_ Lucy Pevensie," he said, sounding both pleased and surprised as he slowly recognized her, mostly because of where she was standing-otherwise it might have been a little harder for him.

"Edmund!" cried Lucy, amazed to see that though the boy in her mind hadn't grown an inch, the real Edmund was still over a head taller than she was.

"Why it _is _Lucy!" he laughed, running over towards the lamppost and throwing his arms around her. "How are you?"

She clung to his brown Archenland-style tunic and rested in his arms for a few moments before murmuring, "I missed you."

Snow fell around them thickly now, though neither of then noticed until Lucy shivered.

"Oh, here, take this." Edmund rolled his eyes and pulled out a green wool cape, throwing it over her shoulders after brushing a thin layer of snow off of them.

He noticed, while he said nothing about it, that she was still wearing the necklace he had tossed to her on his last day. Most of his friends, apart from Lucy, had been in Archenland-which, thankfully, had been better than Calormen for him-and were young dukes and the two twin princes, Cor and Corin, so he hadn't bothered to speak to much of anyone in the western woods now that he'd returned except for his family, Peter, and-briefly-to Tumnus. Edmund had learned nothing of Lucy's waiting for him day in and day out, and he never fathomed about the candle, so the seeing the necklace was a nice surprise for him.

Somehow they hadn't expected it, but they found at once that they were too old for their games. Swimming would have been okay still, but not while it was so cold and wintertime, and snowing besides. They stood smiling at each other for a little while until, after a bit, they ended up sitting on the ground, cross-legged like Turks with their feet tucked under them, looking up at the lamppost.

"Is it true that it's never flickered?" Lucy wondered aloud.

"I've never seen it flicker; and it's supposedly nearly as old as Narnia itself." said Edmund, putting his arm around her shoulders in a friendly manner. "It's the strongest light in the world, they say."

"It's prettier than it used to be, I think." said Lucy, leaning a little on Edmund's side. "Prettier than it was yesterday, anyhow."

"Yeah," said Edmund, looking at Lucy instead of the lamppost. "Much prettier."

She didn't catch on. "Hmm?"

"It's getting late," said Edmund at last, standing up. "Come on, Lu, I'll walk you home."

She put her hand in his and he helped her up onto her feet. "All right."

It would be kind of nice, perhaps, to say that the story ends here. Right here with the two childhood sweethearts reunited, happy, a little older and wiser, walking the woods together, safe and sound under the light of the lamppost. But, then, that's not much of a story is it? At any rate, however, that's not the ending-not by a long shot. Pain waits quietly for its chance to strike...like a snake hiding in the bushes far off in another part of Narnia...a long, slithery green thing...ready to bite.

In the eastern part of Narnia, a woman's scream echoed, someone gasped, a cry of "Mother!" rang out. As unconnected as it would seem, one little snake-bite, miles and miles away, would change Lucy and Edmund's future for ever.

**AN: Please review.**


	3. Riding Out

The death of the queen hit Narnia hard and left it bruised all over. Everyone: north, south, east, west, Lone Islands, even Archenland-separate country though it was-mourned.

It had happened so suddenly; the beautiful queen and her son, Prince Rilian of Narnia, had gone on a picnic in a small pine-wood just a bit north of Cair Paravel, taking some of their favourite youthful courtiers with them. Later, King Caspian, freed from a dreadfully dull meeting over a political argument that had needed to be settled between a talking hedgehog and a talking rabbit at along last, rode out after them to join in.

It was winter; but the snow that had fallen over the west-side of the country hadn't gotten close to them yet. The air might have been a bit nippy, but that was all right because the queen had a wide selection of warm, velvet cloaks and capes, and had chosen her prettiest navy blue one with a glittering sapphire clasp.

When the day faded into twilight, the queen settled herself down on a cozy checkered blanket and made herself quite comfortable under the cloak. King Caspian, seeing his beloved wife falling asleep, had simply smiled his adoring smile at her, lifted her head up just an inch or so, and placed a silken pillow under her head, leaving her with a light kiss on the nose.

"Father," called Rilian from a distance, "the courtiers are going to see if we can go wild fox hunting, do you want to join us or will you sit with mother for the evening?"

King Caspian went to tell the court it was too late in the day for fox-hunting-most of Rilian's favourite noblemen and knights were a mite too young and boisterous to realize this-and that if they tried it at such an hour they could end up shooting the wrong sort of animal, a _talking _creature.

When he had gotten it through their skulls that, both as king of Narnia and as Rilian's father, he strictly forbade them to go hunting in the rum lighting, they bowed their heads, apologized whole-heartedly, and found something else to amuse themselves with.

Then the scream had come. By the time they reached the queen, it was too late. Caspian took one look down at his wife's face and knew that no physician in all of the world would do her any good; she was fading away too quickly, her face pale as a sheet. On one hand, the teeth marks of a serpent were visible; the venom had been seeping into her blood. All around those horrid marks were pitiful shades of brown against her white skin. The poor woman, unawares though she had been caught, was not stupid. The queen had been trying to suck the poison out of herself, but with no favorable results.

"Caspian," she croaked, her lips trembling as they formed their last word.

Her husband was holding her and she could feel his tears falling randomly all over her neck and face and on the bridge of her nose. Slowly she was going numb, losing her ability to feel even that. She wanted to say more than his name; she wanted to say she loved him; she wanted to say goodbye to their son, too. But that was not to be.

If it wasn't for the news of the queen's death, Edmund and Lucy would have passed a completely peaceful winter; as it was, the world was too somber for that. Even Lady Susan Philippe wore a black frock for a proper month of mourning. Shops closed and noblemen removed their hats in spite of the cold, hanging their bare heads. Count Pevensie gave up speaking for a week. Edmund's father forfeited his pipe for the mourning period. Peter was to give a speech, seeing as he had been one of the last few knights ever personally knighted by King Caspian's late consort.

More than that, Peter's presence was required for the funeral itself at the court of Cair Paravel and provisions started to be made for him to travel east. He would have offered to take Lucy with him, since she was so keen on seeing the court, but under the circumstances, and the fact that there was no way he could-at such sort notice-bring both Lucy _and_ Edmund, not wanting to separate them since they hadn't seen each other in so long, he decided against it. She could come some other time; Edmund, too.

When Peter mounted his horse to leave, kissing his little sister who stood plucking sadly at her dagger-necklace, her eyes teary, goodbye on the forehead, Susan came out to meet him.

"Goodbye, Sir Peter."

"Goodbye, Lady Susan."

"Will you stay away very long?" she asked, feeling her face growing hot with embarrassment.

"No, I shall return after the funeral." he bent down and kissed Susan-this time on the lips, since at that moment no one seemed to be watching except for Lucy-and in a lower voice added, "Besides, I've given little Lu my word-what _would_ I say if I broke it?"

"See that you keep it, then." Susan said coyly, blinking at him with her eyelashes fluttering demurely.

"Edmund, I expect you wont have Lucy running around in the cold without her cloak?" he said, raising a pretend-stern brow at the boy who either was already his squire or else was going to be very shortly, depending on how you looked at it.

"No, sir!" It seemed that, while it had left Lucy lonely for a few years, his time in Archenland had made Edmund a slightly more likeable person to others.

Lucy always thought it just brought out all the things she had seen in him long before then-back when he'd given her that peppermint, even when he was mean most of the time. But, at any rate, she had no objections to Peter and Edmund being friends, as they appeared to have bonded over the fact that they both cared deeply for her.

So Peter rode out and attended the funeral of the queen at Cair Paravel. It was a long session of beating drums, lowered flags, whispered sobs, quiet tears, and pale blue flower petals being dropped upon her corpse.

After the main ceremonies were complete, Caspian announced that there had been an old tradition, believed to have been started in the Lone Islands-though there wasn't anyone alive then who knew for sure-in which a king, after losing a crowned wife (royal wives who have not had their coronations and are still considered official queens are something of a rarity in most countries, often including Narnia), rode from the east capitol of his kingdom to the far west, and then back again. This was done on horseback, and selected knights were to ride with him. He selected Peter to be one of these knights, but exempted him from riding back afterwards because of his having family in the western woods anyway.

Cries of, "Aslan bless the king!" echoed after Caspian and his knights as their horses thundered away, starting on the long journey. It was not at all a pleasant, or even remotely exciting trip, for Caspian's mood was glum-as was to be expected-and nothing of consequence happened; the riders stopped only to pee in the bushes, eat something, or else to sleep for the night. Thankfully, they didn't often have to sleep out in the wilderness; because subjects were more than willing to extend hospitality.

When they reached the Lantern Waste, Caspian was weary-both of the riding and of the constant company-so he asked them to go on without him for a little while.

"My good Sirs," said Caspian, alighting from his horse and glancing up at the famous Narnian Lamppost for which the upcoming village was named, "please go on through the village on your own, I will follow in a bit. Sir Peter will lead you-he knows these woods."

Peter nodded; he looked so grand in uniform as he motioned for the others to obey the king and follow him that Lucy herself might have almost had a hard time recognizing him if they had met up just then.

"Lion have mercy on us," Caspian muttered, speaking either to himself or to his horse, shaking his head sadly. He gave his horse a gentle pat on the neck and looked around; it was nearly the middle of springtime now. And yet, to him, a widower, it still felt more like winter.

There was the sound of panted laughter from not far off; and Caspian glanced each way, sure that there must be a dryad roaming about those parts, watching him and giggling. He had no fear of such things, not since he was their king. Kings weren't supposed to fear their subjects, and if he ever _had _been frightened of them, he wasn't anymore.

Then there was a gasp from behind the lamppost. Ah, so it wasn't a dryad! He could see her; it was a little girl, perhaps a dozen years old.

It was, in fact, if anyone is uncertain, Lucy Pevensie. She had come to the lamppost to meet Edmund, but not finding him there, was shocked to discover an older gentleman at the post with his beautiful horse, glancing about for her curiously.

Lucy could tell within a couple of minutes that he was of noble birth, probably from Cair Paravel itself. He was a Telmarine-Narnian, and while the story of how men of Telmarine ethnicity became a strong part of the royal bloodline is very long-and some parts of it are very dull because most people who tell it leave all the interesting bits out-all that needs to be known is that a good deal of nobles in Narnia in those days had the blood of Telmar in them. What she didn't know was that he was King Caspian; she took him for a duke or a count because of his seeming to pass through without attendants. She hadn't seen her brother arrive and the message that the royal procession was passing through on that day had never reached their village for some reason or other.

Suddenly shy of the stranger, Lucy stationed herself behind the tall iron pole of the lamppost, waiting for him to leave. While she waited, she took him in. The Telmarine-Narnian lord was clearly older than he looked, but he didn't have any gray in his shoulder-length dark hair. There were traces of darkened stubble, though not quite a full beard. He was a little taller than Peter; yet the slumping manner in which the solemn man conducted himself didn't make this fact very apparent at first.

It must be admitted that Lucy's feelings towards the stranger were not all fear, much of it was fascination.

Seeing the little face peering out at him, Caspian said, his accent very thick, "Hey there! Are you hiding from me?"

"No," said Lucy, peeking out and then pulling her head back again.

For the first time since his wife had died, he felt the urge to laugh and a small clearing chuckle tickled his throat as he walked closer to the pole, the little girl's eyes widening with surprise.

"What are you doing behind there?" he asked, almost laughing again, feeling rather amused.

"I was waiting for someone." Lucy told him truthfully. If she had known he was king, she would have curtsied. "I didn't expect anyone else to turn up here."

"Where do you come from?" he asked, seeming more friendly than alarming so that Lucy felt herself calming down.

"From the village," explained Lucy, pointing behind her.

"I see." said Caspian, nodding.

"I like your horse," Lucy told him, glancing shyly over at the pretty, dark brown animal the Telmarine-Narnian had ridden in on.

He smiled at her, put two of his fingers in his mouth, and whistled, beckoning the horse to trot over to them. "His name is Destrier. He is getting a bit old, but he has always served me well; when I ride him, I know I am in good hands."

"Or hooves!" Lucy joked, giggling as the horse nudged her arm with his nose. "Hallo, Destrier..." She started to stroke the horse's smooth face, planting a small kiss on his muzzle.

Caspian took a carrot out of his doublet pocket and handed it to her. "Here, give him this."

Lucy held it out to the eager-for-a-snack horse, but she did so the wrong way, with her fingers pointing up.

"Not like that," Caspian corrected her, reaching out and forcing her fingers open. "Destrier's a good fellow, but he will nip if you try to feed him like that."

"Sorry," Lucy blushed at her mistake, making sure to hold her palm flat as she offered the carrot to the horse again.

"That's all right," sighed Caspian. "My son used to do the same thing when he was a little younger than you. He was quite the little risk-taker...shocking that he still has all his limbs, never mind his fingers."

Lucy's glance became curious again, looking away from Destrier. "You have a son? Do you have any daughters?"

Caspian shook his head. "No, though to be honest, a nice, quiet daughter who could sit still for a half-second might have been a welcome change of pace from time to time."

She finished feeding the horse his carrot.

"Do you want to ride him?" Caspian offered, noticing the yearning look in her eyes as she stared dreamily at the horse.

"I don't know how to ride...my brother is going to teach me when he comes home; he's away now."

"It's easy," he assured her. "Look, why don't you just ride him to that tree over there-" he paused and pointed to the tree he had in mind, "-and then back to the lamppost?"

It was too tempting to turn down, Lucy simply had to give in and allow Caspian to help her up onto the horse's back.

"Riding Tip;" he warned her, taking note of how she wobbled just the littlest bit in the saddle, "always grip with your legs and thighs, pull them in tightly-that is what's going to keep you on his back, not the reins."

"But then what are the reins for?" asked Lucy, feeling a little confused at this bit of information.

"Normally, to direct the horse, but you're just going to go in a straight line and then turn around back this way." Caspian explained with the patience only a man of age who has had at least one child can manage. "When you want to turn, just pull on the left side."

"Doesn't it hurt his lips?" Lucy wanted to know, leaning over to look nervously down at the bridle in the horse's mouth.

"No, he is very strong." He said. "Trust me, it wont hurt him."

"So...um...how do I make him...uh...you know...go?"

Caspian made a faint clicking noise and Destrier-being well trained-started going straight.

A squeal of delight escaped from Lucy. Whenever she had thought about riding, she had imagined all the fun it would be, but it was even better than she'd dreamed. She already loved the feel of the horse under her and was slowly starting to gain a natural seat in the saddle, using Caspian's advice to hold on with her legs, that hadn't been there before Destrier started moving.

When she had made it back to the lamppost, Caspian saw how brightly her eyes were still shinning and made up some nonsense about horses being uncomfortable going back and forth only once, saying that she simply _had_ to do so just a couple of times more-for Destrier's own good.

It barely took that to convince her. "If I must," Lucy grinned and imitated the clicking sound Caspian had made to let the horse know it was time to move.

Then, when she'd had her fill of short rides, Caspian helped her down and took his horse back in hand. They shook hands, firm friends now, and said goodbye and best of luck to the other, not even realizing that they had both forgotten to introduce themselves. Perhaps this was excusable; for Caspian thought everyone knew him already, being the king; and Lucy was dazzled by Destrier and entranced by his kindly owner. So forgetting themselves wasn't entirely their own fault.

A few minutes after Caspian left, Edmund showed up looking apologetic, and a little bit cross as well.

"Father and Susan made me study from the dictionary for two hours, that's why I'm late." He announced sullenly, kicking lightly at a little pebble on the ground. "Stepmother finally thinks I can do no wrong, since I've gotten educated in Archenland, and now I've got the other two on my bloody case all the time!"

Lucy listened as she always did, but close friends always notice when the other is distracted, and Edmund asked, "I say, what's up, Lu?"

"Nothing much," said Lucy, shrugging her shoulders. "There was a man here before you came who let me ride his horse-he was very nice, I liked him."

Twisting his face into a very proper expression that Lucy sort of hated because it made him seem as though he was pretending to be much older than her, when really everybody knew it was only two years difference, he said, "You shouldn't talk to people you don't know."

"Well, I know him _now_." Lucy retorted jokingly.

"Ha ha, very funny..." Edmund said, rolling his eyes. "Come on, let's go, I thought we were going to go fishing in the brook."

"Do we still have time?"

"Some," Edmund told her, grabbing onto her wrist and tugging her along. "We'd better get a move on before it gets too late."

"You've got the rods?"

"Already at the stone wall, do come on already!" He tugged on her wrist again.

"Let's go," Lucy agreed, trotting along by his side and letting him prattle on about his bossy family for a while, trying her best to seem interested.

**AN: Please leave a review.**


	4. Of Pride and Rash Marriage Arrangements

It was a wet spring that year, buckets of rain poured down on nearly an every-other-day basis. This led Edmund and Lucy to begin spending more time indoors. Usually they sat in Countess Helen Pevensie's parlor and played chess or cards.

On the day Uncle Harold came to speak to Count Pevensie, bringing his snooty wife, Aunt Alberta, with him to sit broodingly, stirring herbal tea and making unpleasant comments, they were playing cards.

Edmund had lost four games in a row and both he and Lucy were focused very intently on their fifth game. They had no need of going into the kitchen since Dame Macready had brought out their tea on a tray already, seeing as they weren't likely to break concentration just because it was time for a quick meal. That was why they hadn't any idea what the grown-ups were talking about at the table; and although whether their knowing would have changed what came of this conversation is probably a moot question, Lucy always secretly wished she'd been included. After all, it was largely about her. Sure, it was stirred with faded touches of politics, family-standing, alliances, and royalty, but when one really thought about it, it was mainly regarding Lucy. Uncle Harold (who, by the way, was a duke-at least in title if not in any overt sort of wealth) probably didn't see it that way, which was strange considering it was he who brought it up in the first place, but that was his own failing. Peter was there-and was rightly appalled-but he was very nearly a grown-up himself anyway.

"It's common knowledge that the king is grieving over the loss of his wife, Narnia's queen, but what people seem to have over-looked is that the Narnians will not rest without a queen for long-what kind of country would?-and that far sooner than we realize, King Caspian will have to take a new wife for himself." said Uncle Harold, speaking very proudly, as if he had tapped into something larger than life.

Helen was truly baffled. Yes, it was a sad bit of news, everyone had been heartbroken, but what did it have to do with their family? Why would her brother invite himself to tea insisting that he had something very important to discuss with them, simply to say that? She fought the childish urge to fidget with the tiny crystal beads on the cream-coloured bodice of her dress, forcing herself to wait quietly for Harold to explain.

"Sooner or later all the families with young, unmarried girls will be kissing the king's hand and groveling at his feet as if there's no tomorrow. You understand I'd rather see our family benefit first. We're an old family, Helen, quite old, for all we know we might simply be gaining back what's ours through this."

"Harold, I don't understand," said Count Pevensie, placing down his teacup with a concerned, tight look written all over his face; "what are you trying to say?"

"Brother-in-law!" snapped Alberta, her lips turned up into an angry sneer. "Must he spell it out?"

It was Peter who understood first; a look of clouded horror sweeping over him, the blood slowly draining from his face. "No!"

"You're honestly speaking of trying to arrange a marriage between the king and our Lucy?" Helen asked incredulously, her brows dead in the middle of her forehead, caught between being flattered and being utterly disgusted.

"No!" Peter said again, louder this time. But no one took any note of him.

"The king is getting on in age..." Count Pevensie's voice was that slow tone that is sometimes gentle and other times dangerous; it was doubtful if even he himself knew which it was at that moment.

"Lucy is twelve!" cried Peter, clenching his fists protectively. "She's only a child! The king is old enough to be her father!"

"She'll grow," Harold shrugged callously, rolling his eyes coldly. "She wont be twelve all her life...she might be queen for the rest of it, though."

Peter could feel his chin shaking madly with anger; his heart pounding in his ears. If Harold had not been any relation, he might have lunged at him right there, thrown a forceful punch, and broken the man's nose. As it was, he looked to his parents to make this nightmare end; surely they were about to comment on how ill-matched such a despicable marriage would be. But then he saw something flicker in his father's eyes. It wasn't firm, it was wavering in and out, fighting against good sense and genuine love for his little daughter, yet it was still there. And Peter saw it.

Outraged, Peter shouted, "Father, you can't possibly be considering this?"

"No," he stammered unsurely, glancing over at Harold. "...I mean, yes...sort of...it's not...I mean...I..."

"Mother?" Peter's voice was nearly breaking with emotion as he turned to Helen for help. "Mother, please, tell him not to-"

"Lucy's not thirteen yet..." said Helen diplomatically. "I'm sure you understand I feel uncomfortable about-"

"Uncomfortable?" Peter echoed in disbelief. "That's _it_? Uncle Harold speaks of getting our Lucy, your precious little girl, married to a man only a little bit younger than you are, and you're _uncomfortable_?"

"The king is a good man, Peter, you of all people know that-you're one of his knights." Harold said sharply, still unfazed.

"Oh, so just because I'm loyal to my country and king means I have to like the idea of my little sister being married at twelve?" Peter sneered; his face was very red and he looked ready to explode.

"King Caspian is mourning his wife; if he remarries, in all likelihood, he wont touch the new bride-but whoever she is, she'll still have a coronation-our country needs a queen-and so what does it matter how old the girl is? Marriage in name, little else." said Harold, smiling over at a prim-looking Alberta.

"This is monstrous," Peter gritted his teeth, shaking his head. "I don't want to hear another word!"

"I don't like you casting your aspirations on this household," Count Pevensie said to Uncle Harold.

"I think you should let the matter rest, Harold." Helen put in softly, seeing her son's bubbling rage and the look of bafflement on her husband's face, not sure how much longer either of them had until they snapped.

Back in the parlor, Lucy had no idea what they were saying, but she did suddenly think she heard her brother shouting. Being so adored by him, he rarely ever raised his voice in her presence unless she did something unsafe, so it was very strange hearing him shout. Whatever he was going on about was infuriating him.

"Edmund, do you hear Peter shouting?"

Edmund was surprised, too. "Yes, let's go see what's wrong."

They put down the cards and went into the other room just as Harold and Alberta were leaving in a huff, both of her parents looked stunned and torn, and Peter appeared ready to hit someone-Lucy had never seen him so angry before.

"Peter, what's the matter?" Lucy went over to him, holding out her hands.

He wouldn't tell her; he wouldn't let her get wind of this. What was the point of frustrating her over something that he'd sooner drown himself in the brook than allow to happen? "Nothing, Lu, it's nothing."

"Your nostrils are flaring." Edmund pointed out, his forehead crinkled.

"I need to be alone right now," Peter said, patting Lucy awkwardly on the hairline. "It's not your fault, Lu, go back into the parlor-I'm going upstairs."

"What's with him?" Lucy turned to her parents with her left brow slightly sunken.

"Harold was saying something that upset him, dear, he'll be fine." Helen told her, planting a kiss on her daughter's forehead. "Nothing at all for you to worry about. We have things in hand, nothing bad is going to happen."

"Why would something bad happen?" Edmund wanted to know.

"It wouldn't." said Count Pevensie firmly. "And it wont. Peter's just upset right now, let it go."

Once the thought of arranging a marriage for Lucy had been started, it became like a snowball rolling down a hill, growing bigger and bigger; no one seemed to be able to stop it. Of course Helen didn't think it was right to give her daughter, especially at such a young age, in marriage to so old a king, but she had nursed-secretly-for a few years by this point-a sort of idea that she might be able to marry Lucy off to Edmund eventually. It didn't seem like a bad notion. And it certainly wasn't very far-fetched.

After all, she had seen Lucy light the candle for him every night while he was away in Archenland, and she was aware of how fond they were of each other. They could be happy-and happiness was all she truly wanted for her children. Besides, Peter had brought up the subject of if it was possible for them to arrange a marriage between him and Susan Philippe; if the family turned out to be willing to give them a daughter-in-law, why not a son-in-law, too? It seemed quite simple, really.

Which was why one afternoon, when the sun finally shown and the rain had gone away, Helen went to visit Edmund's stepmother, thinking to at least plant the idea in her mind as well. Things didn't go as planned.

"Your Edmund and my Lucy seem so close, it's so sweet how they meet each day, just like they did when they were little children, isn't it?" Helen mulled aloud while Edmund's stepmother got out the gold-and-brass Calormene-style tea-set she liked to use whenever there was company.

"And why shouldn't they be close, Countess?" the stepmother answered with a smile that looked plastered-on. "They're best friends."

"I know," said Helen, undaunted. "It would be such a pity for them to ever have to part ways."

Edmund's stepmother wasn't a moron, she knew perfectly well what Helen was hinting at. The truth, however, was that, although she loved Lucy dearly and thought there could be no sweeter girl for a daughter-in-law, she had a secret idea of her own. She had noticed that Susan was already attached to Sir Peter, so the chances of getting her married off to someone of Calormene ethnicity without causing a row were slim, and that was very nearly all set. It wasn't official yet, but everyone expected them to give Susan to Peter eventually anyhow.

Yet, why, she thought, should she give and take from the same family? What would be the point of that? Peter's marriage to Susan would make one connection; why did she need to make a double knot by taking Lucy for her stepson's bride? She rather fancied that she could, to make up for the disaster with the Calormen school, marry Edmund off to a fine Calormene Tarkheena; and he would see that Calormen wasn't all bad. More than that, it would be nice to have the connection with a place half of her heart had always felt close to.

"Countess, dearest, please forgive my bluntness, but I believe Edmund's father has notions of arranging his marriage elsewhere." said the half-Calormene stepmother. In truth, she had not said a word of her plans to her husband, and her husband had said nothing at all of marrying Edmund off to anyone, but she acted as though it was all settled. She thought it would be cruel to allow Helen to nurse any false hopes.

Helen's face flushed; she was embarrassed, not having expected such an up-front response. Veiled hints are always nice, coy, demure things until someone stops beating around the bush and smashes them all.

"I-" her throat felt dry. What could she say?

"Your Lucy is a fine girl, though, I'm sure things will work out lovely for her." She took out a small silver-encrusted wooden spoon and stirred the tea in the pot.

"It's just-" Helen stammered, "-they...they do...like each other an awful lot, and surely since Susan was-is-with, you know, Peter, and...I just-"

"Darling, no one would ever dream of marrying into the same family twice, how would that look?" the stepmother said flat out.

"No, I understand..." Helen spoke through her teeth. "I'm sorry," she headed for the door, "I am feeling unwell all of a sudden and I simply must go home. Tea was lovely, thank you." (she hadn't actually had any).

When Count Pevensie found out about this conversation, he was furious; not just with Edmund's father and stepmother, but with his own wife as well. "Helen, why did you do that? Why?"

"I only meant-"

"Why did you go over there, with our family's honour on your shoulders, to beg someone to marry our daughter, eh? Lucy's a wonderful young lady, and she will be a perfect wife to whoever she marries, but she will marry him properly-none of this underhand groveling."

"I didn't _beg_," Helen said bitterly, feeling insulted. "I wouldn't dream of begging for such a thing-I only went to bring up what was already apparent."

"Apparent my foot!" shouted Count Pevensie in a thundering voice that carried.

"Husband, see reason-"

"Hush, Helen." he growled. "Anyone with a lick of sense would see that others should be begging marriages from our family-not the other way around!"

"What are you saying?" Helen felt her lips trembling, though she didn't know why.

"I'm saying my daughter is going to make the best marriage possible in the whole of the country-then they'll see what a mistake they made, speaking to us like that."

"You cannot possibly mean that-not if it's what I think you're implying-besides they wont refuse us completely...remember, husband, Susan is likely to be our daughter-in-law."

"Likely?" his right brow arched in a manner that was cold, distant, and resolved. "How long have we been saying there ought to be a match of it between the two? They always find an excuse."

"The last excuse was not theirs." Helen reminded him, to be fair. "It was you who wanted to wait until he had finished his training for knighthood."

"And he has, hasn't he?" argued Count Pevensie. "And do we have a daughter-in-law? No, no we don't. They're stringing us along to make us look like fools. Well, we shan't be fools any longer."

"Peter and Susan-" Helen tried again, almost in tears by this point.

"I wouldn't take their girl if they were to offer her now, it would look as if we were just waiting around."

"We _were _waiting around!" she protested.

"I will see about getting a new marriage arranged for him once the matter with Lucy is settled."

Helen went very white and picked nervously at a loose thread in the collar of her dress. "Lucy's twelve, have you forgotten that?"

"I remember; this might take some time anyway."

"Oh, Aslan," wailed Helen piteously into her hands. "That I had to live to see this day!"

Lucy went on knowing nothing of this, thinking things to be as they had always been; Edmund more or less under the same impression only that-for some unexplained reason-Susan wouldn't see anyone, sat on her own for hours on end, and wept and wept her whole heart out. Peter was better at hiding his emotions; he didn't understand, in full, his father's plans (he would have gone mad if he had, probably) but he had been told that he would not marry Susan Philippe after all. He was grief-stricken, needless to say, but he didn't want Lucy to get any wind of this, so he kept his tears and anger to himself.

One cloudy day where it looked like it might rain but wasn't yet, Lucy met Edmund at the lamppost with some very odd news.

"Lu, you're late." said Edmund, sounding concerned. "Is everything all right?"

"I don't know," said Lucy, her voice shaky with confusion, "something very strange is going on."

"How do you mean?"

"Well," she started to explain, "Peter was out this morning-father sent him on an errand-and then these strange Telmarine-Narnian noblemen came in, their names were...let me think..." she pursed her lips and tried to remember. "...oh, yes, Lord Glozelle and Lord Sopespian."

"What did they want?" Edmund asked, intrigued; strange news like this didn't come every day.

"I thought they wanted to speak to Father, but he said they wanted to talk to me...Mother was crying...I don't know why...and they came into the parlor and asked me questions for an hour."

"What kind of questions?"

Lucy wrinkled her nose. "All kinds. They asked me how old I was...when my next birthday would be...odd questions about what I thought of my country, Narnia-I told them I loved it, of course...I don't know why they wanted to know _that_..."

"Anything else?" asked Edmund.

"Well, Lord Sopespian started to ask something about whether or not I have my courses...but Mother started sobbing even harder and father told him to please not ask me that...what do you suppose a course is, Ed? Do you think he meant school-work or learning? That's what I think he must have meant."

Edmund's face was very, very red, practically scarlet. "Er...yes, that's what he meant...studies and such."

"Why do you suppose they came and asked me so many questions, Ed?" Lucy mulled, clearly unable to understand whatever was being arranged around her. "I was going to ask Peter, but then Mother and Father pulled me aside and said not to tell him. They told Dame Macready the same thing; I think she had something in her eye."

Edmund was worried; something was very wrong. He might not know what it was, and there was no need to get Lucy anxious in the meantime, but he was determined to find out exactly what was amiss. And, if possible, put a stop to it.

One might rightly wonder why on earth Caspian agreed to allow two of his courtiers to go speak to a little girl of no more than twelve years old over a matter of royal marriage; but to be fair, he didn't know very much about it.

He could think of nothing but his dead wife, and when his advisors started blabbering about getting him married again, he could have cared less. Anyone they picked was fine; he couldn't love another anyway, so what did it matter? They could go a-looking for a new Queen of Narnia all they wanted. Why should it affect him as long as she was a good enough person to rule? Caspian knew whatever wench they picked would be younger than himself-they weren't going to go after the old maids-even if he didn't know _how_ much younger. Really, he didn't care about that, either. It was probably just as well that a new queen could out-live him and rule as regent after he died, before Rilian was crowned.

All he knew of the matter was that there was a girl, the daughter of a count, who his men were considering for the next queen of Narnia, and that her name was Lucy Pevensie. He did not know how old she was or what she looked like. For some reason he didn't notice she had the same last name as one of his most trusted knights, either. If Lucy had told him her name on the day he let her ride his horse, he might have known at once who they were speaking of and likely said, "Find someone a bit older than that, at least." But he didn't know, and he remained silent, letting them do whatever they pleased.

**AN: And the plot thickens....anyway, please review.**


	5. What's done is done

Try as he might, Edmund found it almost impossible to piece together what was going on with the Pevensies; and why his sister never went to see Peter anymore. He was a clever boy, and he honestly believed that, if only he could get someone to give him an honest answer, he might be able to think of what to do. But how could he do anything in ignorance? Such a technicality had never stopped him before, but even a person as bold as Edmund could be at times could see quite clearly that this was, whatever else it happened to be, a delicate situation.

Finally, in desperation, he cornered Susan. She would tell him nothing at all about Lucy, not even the precious minor nuggets she _did_ know for certain regarding the little Pevensie girl, but he managed to get her to tell him that her own possible marriage was ended before it had even begun.

"You mean Peter's broken it off?" Edmund asked, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot; if it weren't for his concern over where all this hubbub left Lucy, he would have rather eaten dirt than had this particular conversation with his broken-hearted elder sister.

Susan shook her head. "No, Edmund, he hasn't, but the Count and Countess won't have me for a daughter-in-law now."

"But why not?" he huffed, wishing she would get to the point-and fast.

"I believe our stepmother had some sort of falling-out with the Countess, and now...it's over..." she blinked her eyes as she spoke, not crying, yet not exactly dry-eyed at the moment, either.

"But Peter himself hasn't said a word about breaking it off to you," said Edmund, not at all surprised-he knew Sir Peter; and he knew that the knight would rather throw himself out of a moving carriage than do anything that might hurt or upset Susan.

"No," Susan sighed, biting the very tip of her lower lip lightly and then releasing it, letting out a faint, sad breath.

"Then why don't you ask him, Su?"

Her brows arched and furrowed at the same time, her forehead clinking deeply. "Ask him what? If he still wants to marry me?"

Edmund rolled his eyes, tempted to reply sarcastically. But he didn't dare, not just then, he wanted more information out of her and didn't think he'd get it if he got her mad at him. That was the last thing he needed. "Yes, why not?"

Susan's mouth dropped slightly, her lips parting in shock. "Edmund! You mean, go to him-on my own-and just _ask_? I can't ask him that! Think of how that would seem!"

Inhaling deeply, Edmund closed his eyes and composed himself. "Susan, you want to marry him, don't you? Isn't that what marriage is supposed to be all about; about saying things to each other that you can't and-thank Aslan-_won't_ say to anyone else?"

Susan knew, and hated, that her brother was right. Still, the thought of going up to Peter after their parents had broken into tiny shattered bits whatever hopes they'd had of being together, and then just asking him if he would go against them and marry her in spite of that, made her tremble all over and her throat close up, aching. She wanted him; but it seemed better almost to lose her dear Sir Peter altogether than to have to buck-up and say...say _that_...to him. She was a brave girl in other things; in this, though, she had no pluck, no courage left.

"I can't do it," she whispered, her voice so small and pale-sounding.

"Why not?" Edmund rolled his eyes in exasperation. "You've just said it to me, haven't you? Why can't you say it to him?"

"You are my brother, Ed." Susan said it as if that explained everything and made perfect sense, even though it didn't. "You're family...you're close."

"And is he that far?" inquired her brother gently.

Susan closed her eyes, trying to steady herself, trying to think. "I don't know."

"Courage, Su, courage." Edmund patted her lightly on the arm. He would say no more about it, not then, but he wouldn't leave without having those last words.

Some time passed. Edmund turned fifteen; Lucy getting closer to thirteen, though still not quite there yet. Susan did not go to Peter; she procrastinated dreadfully, and of course the longer she waited, the more awkward she felt. Soon she felt as if she simply had to make up excuses not to try and speak to him. Once, he tried to speak to her, but she-mortified-feigned a stomach-ache that day (by the time he left, she felt terrible and was no longer faking quite so much) and spent hours up in her bedroom. It was too embarrassing to think she had waited all this time for him to come to her, and she doubted whatever he'd come to talk about had anything at all to do with marriage between them. No, it was better to hide away until she could be certain over what she should do.

Certainty did not come; before she knew it, she was able to blame her aloofness on distraction by gossip. And perhaps she truly did have some level of excuse, at least as far as being surprised was concerned. It was Edmund, however, who received the biggest shock.

At supper one night, his stepmother announced, rather airily, that she heard Lady Lucy Pevensie was betrothed to a man old enough to be her father.

Edmund nearly choked on the bite of food in his mouth, and dropped his fork on the floor. "What?"

"Not sure who it is yet," she prattled on, "the countess wont speak to me, horribly uppity these days, but I've heard he is a nobleman of politics, very wealthy. At any rate, they're keeping his identity under wraps-I don't believe Lucy herself knows anything of it yet, and she's to be the bride."

His face whiter than salt, Edmund gasped, "Lucy's getting married? Isn't she too young for that?"

The stepmother shrugged her shoulders. "She's getting older, some families like to marry their children off young, perhaps they regret not marrying Peter off any sooner."

"What I still don't understand," said Edmund's father, looking baffled, "is why the count and countess are so cold with us now. Count Pevensie snubs me every time I try to approach him, and just look at how he's broken off any chance of a betrothal between his son and our Susan without any explanation."

Susan looked down at her plate, pretending to be fascinated by the delicately-cut slices of roast beef, she wanted no part of this conversation.

"Lucy's getting married?" said Edmund again, unable to get over that fact.

"I expect she will do well," sighed the stepmother. "You know, at one point, I believe Helen wanted to fix her marriage in this household."

You could have knocked Edmund over with a feather. To be honest, he had never thought of marrying Lucy Pevensie up until that moment, they being only the best of friends, but such a notion didn't repel him in the least. He thought-almost _knew_-right then, that he would have wanted to marry her if anyone had gotten the good sense to ask him what he would have liked. Of course no one _had_!

To his stepmother, he murmured, "And?"

"And what?" she asked pointedly. "At the time we were still under the impression that Peter was going to marry Susan."

I wish they'd stop saying that, thought Susan, wondering if it would be rude to excuse herself from the table before she had finished eating-suddenly she wasn't feeling very hungry.

"So?" said Edmund, his brows sunken. "What does that have to do with it?"

"We didn't need another marriage arranged in that household."

"Is _that_ why they're upset with us?" Edmund's father asked, the realization slowly dawning on him.

"Oh, who knows?" huffed the half-Calormene stepmother.

"At any rate, they hadn't a right to treat us as they have." the father decided, resolved to stay cross and believe that he and his wife were in the right, however much evidence proved the contrary.

What Edmund wanted, still in a state of shock, was to go to Lucy and tell her all the things he had heard, but they wouldn't let him out that night. And the windows were barred by a certain hour to keep potential criminals out, unfortunately having the added result of keeping a near-desperate Edmund in. The front door seemed a sensible option, but it had a loud squeak in it that hadn't been fixed yet; for sure someone would hear him leaving if he tried to go out that way.

By the time he was able to meet up with Lucy, she already knew.

That very night, in fact, her parents announced-in front of Peter, too, knowing they couldn't hide it from him for ever-that they had arranged a marriage for her.

A darkish vein in Peter's forehead throbbed; his lips quivered with furry, so upset he couldn't speak.

"Marriage?" Lucy asked in a surreal, rather frightened, voice.

"Lucy, sweetheart, I think it's time we explained to you why those Telmarine-Narnian men spoke with you a few months back." said Count Pevensie, reaching over to lightly pat the back of his daughter's hand.

"It bloody well is!" exclaimed Peter, finding his voice at last. "What men? This is the first I've heard of it."

"Those men were-are-advisors and courtiers of King Caspian," Count Pevensie said slowly, not sure if Lucy would understand the veiled hint or if he would need to go into detail.

Lucy did not understand; but Peter did, and he was beside himself. "How could you?" His eyes narrowed in on his parents, filled with hurt and betrayal. "How could you do this to her?"

"Do what?" asked Lucy. What did King Caspian have to do with a marriage arrangement for her? This was getting hard to follow.

"Lucy," said Helen in a voice that sounded as if it wanted very much to be glad but couldn't be in spite of its best efforts. "You will be the next queen of Narnia, do you understand?"

She was an innocent, not a dolt-now she understood. It all became so clear: the strange questions, the underhand arrangements, them not letting her tell Peter what was going on...all of it!

"I cannot believe that you would-" Peter started again.

"Oh, for the love of all that is good and holy, Peter, shut up!" Count Pevensie barked, feeling rotten the moment the words were out of his mouth, wishing he could take them back.

"I wont allow this," said Peter, his voice cracking and his misty-eyes shifting towards little Lucy. That dear, sweet child; she seemed even younger than her twelve years, making the pain of what was happening almost unbearable.

"You are not her father," the count reminded his son, speaking in a more kindly way now, keeping his voice firm but not rough. "It is done."

"Aslan help this family if this is what we're coming to," Peter muttered.

"What about me?" Lucy spoke up.

"I beg your pardon, sweetheart?" said Helen.

"You're all acting like there's only two options," said Lucy, holding her moist, clenched fists in her lap. "Marrying the king because you've arranged it," here she paused and fixed her eyes very intently on her parents before letting them drift over to her brother, "or not marrying the king because Peter doesn't want me to."

Peter rolled his eyes. "You really should have been listening, Lu."

"No, none of you are listening!" her tone was bordering on bitter now. "Or have you forgotten who this _really _affects?"

"I wont let anything bad happen to you," Peter firmly promised.

"Son," said Count Pevensie, "if you think we would do anything, arrange anything at all, that would harm our daughter, then you don't know us and we've raised a perfect stranger."

"He's almost as old as Mum is," he protested weakly.

"He is a good man, Peter." Helen murmured. "Once I would have dreamed of a very different sort of marriage for her, but now...now things are quite changed."

"To become queen of a whole country is by no means to make a poor match." Count Pevensie added, putting a hand on his wife's shoulder.

"Countries and loyalties put aside," said Peter coldly, "it's Lucy who's made the most valid point; what if she doesn't want to be queen?"

"Sweetheart," said the count, looking at his daughter, both unwavering and slightly regretful of such a stand. "It's done."

"When do I have to marry him?" asked Lucy, tears welling up in her eyes as she tried not to cry.

"We-your father and I-would have preferred to wait a few years, but the thing is, because this is a political matter as well, the king's advisors want the marriage to take place in a few weeks."

"I don't believe this," Peter buried his face in his hands.

"I see." whispered Lucy brokenly.

"It will be all right," Count Pevensie promised. "I swear everything will be fine, you will be happy."

"What if I'm not?" she dared to ask, under the impression that the king was an old man and a complete stranger to her.

Helen took her daughter's hands. "Dear one, then you must learn to be."

It was at the tip of her tongue to say, "But what if I can't learn?" but her throat was closing on her and all that came out was a half-strangled sob and a mousy squeak.

**AN: Please review.**


	6. Of unmended friendships and surprises

There are few tragedies more under-rated than rifts between close friends. It is unknown who first started undermining such a common disaster with the words, "Oh, all friends disagree, I'm sure it's nothing!" but whoever it was ought to be smacked upside their demented head, however pure their intentions might have been. The reason being is that for ever after, down to this very day, people still say that about good friends, not even bothering to review the facts before doing so-more often than not in an off-hand, rash manner.

Now in fairness to all parties, past and future-both those who have to do with this story and those who, well, don't-it must be admitted, and clearly stated, that many times true friends do patch things up. There are times when it really is 'nothing'. Yet that also happens to be the reason no one actually works on mending friendships anymore. And holes that are left unmended grow.

It was like that with Edmund and Lucy. The tear began slowly, unapparent at first, but soon to grow larger. The first great rip began, sad to say, because of nothing more than despair on Edmund's part. He despaired because he found out-from Lucy herself-that the man she was betrothed to was none other than the king of Narnia.

From the moment the shock over the news of his childhood sweetheart's engagement faded, a new bitter emotion took its place. He believed that he himself had some rights to Lucy; after all he knew her better than anyone, except for maybe Peter. There was nobody else who could claim her confidence the way he held it. To Edmund it started to feel like a great out-rage, some nobleman swooping in from Aslan-knew-where, making off with the girl that he had had all rights over as a child.

Now that it became apparent that the only way to keep her with him always, the only way to not lose her (for he suddenly realized that he didn't only love her, he was also _in love _with her), would be to renew the once-familiar bonds through vows of marriage, he felt he would do anything and everything in his power to keep some old troll from taking her away. Then he might (to that hot scary place with whatever his family thought about pride and all that!) ask her if she would have him.

When it came to light without so much as a shadow of a doubt that the 'troll' in question was King Caspian, nothing could have pained him more. All the fire in Edmund melted away into a hopelessly pale, thin line of curling smoke. To exasperate the plans of any other marriage arrangement would be a simple affair; yet to dare try such a thing with a royal marriage, well, that was treason, wasn't it? Edmund was a loyal Narnian. If he'd been only a few years younger, he would have remained impulsive and not seen it that way; but a fifteen year old squire to a great knight-who was aspiring for knighthood for himself one day in the future-knew better. He knew the laws of the country. Those laws made his stomach hurt and his heart sink. Edmund Philippe had lost his love without being given anything like a fair chance to fight for her; he was defeated before the battle could begin; and he was disarmed before he'd even drawn his sword from its scabbard. It hadn't started, but it was already over.

Lucy, perhaps because she was younger than him, didn't understand this. She simply could not comprehend why Edmund, who had been such a dear friend to her, was barely speaking to her, now when she needed him the most. Marriage at any age can be a daunting thing to face, and to someone as young and sensitive as Lucy, it was no doubt frightening. It was then, more than ever before, that she needed her Ed to stand by her and tell her that everything was going to be all right. Everyone and anyone else could-and would-say it until they were blue in the face, but it wasn't the same.

They stopped meeting at the lamppost; rarely speaking to each other at all while plans for her wedding were being set. In fact, the last time they'd met was when Lucy had told him the bridegroom was going to be King Caspian; Edmund had all but disappeared from her life after that. Everything moving so swiftly, and she so dejected, Lucy had never felt more alone in her whole life.

Not even Peter could be of any comfort to her, for he was a hollow silhouette of the brother she'd always known. Racked with guilt, barely able to glance sideways at Lucy without a lump forming in his throat, the knight once filled with liveliness was rendered monosyllabic and slow-witted. Once he had walked into the cottage, not knowing that the tailors were there for a fitting of Lucy's gown for the ceremony, and as soon as he saw her-the little, unsmiling figure surrounded by yards and yards of white velvet and silk not yet snitched into their proper shapes-his eyes welled up with tears, and he went away for an hour to weep by himself. His precious baby sister had looked more like an afraid, small girl playing dress up than a queenly bride-there were very few sights in the world that could have broken his heart more easily.

The wedding was to be held in the Lantern Waste at the manor of Sir Digory Kirke, an elderly retired knight who owned the most land and wealth in the whole of the village, then King Caspian was to take his bride back to Cair Paravel where the coronation (which was going to be a bigger deal than the relatively simple marriage ceremony) would take place a fortnight after her arrival.

Lucy herself had little say-or need to be involved-in most of these plans (she had been shocked when the tailors actually asked _her _what colour ribbons _she_ liked), so when she wasn't personally wanted around to try on a dress or nod and say, "Yes, that's fine," over some seating-chart (she sometimes wondered what would have happened if she said she hated it-and had a sneaking suspicion that the courtiers who were planning the darn thing would have a break-down if she didn't act the way she knew she was supposed to), she was allowed to go out on her own.

During one such time, only four days before the wedding, Lucy decided to visit Edmund. She walked to his house, waving to a few people she knew on the way, and arrived quietly, unannounced.

Knocking on the door there was no answer, so she peeked inside, hoping no one would mind. Evidently they'd fixed that squeak in the door, because all was quiet, almost completely silent, except for the mumble of distant voices. It was not Edmund, for the voices were female; only Lady Susan and the half-Calormene stepmother in the kitchen with their serving wench, cutting up celery for soup.

"Hallo?" said Lucy softly, more or less on tip-toes as she walked all the way into the house.

The stepmother noticed her first. To the woman's credit, despite all of her faults, she still liked little Lucy, however much of a falling out she and her mother had had. It was a little strange to think of the funny little girl who had all her life been regarded as something of a village pet as the woman who would be sitting on a throne at the king's side, ruling the country, though, she couldn't help mulling-over.

"Child, what are you doing here?" she asked, not unkindly.

"I wanted to see Edmund," Lucy answered, forcing a friendly smile.

"Ed's gone out, Lucy." Susan told her, noticing who their guest was.

"You can wait for him if you like." said the stepmother graciously.

Lucy felt as though she wanted to cry. "No," she said falteringly. "That's all right, I should go. Maybe you could tell him I came by?"

"I will," Susan promised, looking rather forlorn herself. Part of her was aching to ask about Peter and how he was doing-but how would that seem, to ask about someone you knew you weren't going to be betrothed to? So she said nothing more and wandered back into the kitchen.

Hot tears in her eyes, Lucy felt a cold twinge in the air smack lightly at her cheeks in a seemingly-mocking fashion. Although she wandered as if she wasn't going anywhere in particular, she knew all along that she would end up at the lamppost-and she hoped, hoped with all her might, that someone else would end up there, too.

As soon as she saw that he hadn't come, she knew at once that he wouldn't arrive later either. He wasn't coming; and once again, she'd been left to face her looming future on her own without a single living soul to wipe away her tears.

She leaned her back against the chilly iron pole and slid down until her bottom touched the moist soil around it, not caring if she ruined her dress or not. What did it matter? Who was going to scold a girl who was going to be queen and could afford all the clothes in the world if she soiled the back of one measly garment?

The tears came like a storm, and she was weeping so hard that she didn't even hear the hooves of a familiar horse approach, nor the sound of a slightly taken aback Telmarine-Narnian getting down from the saddle and walking over to her.

"Don't cry," said a kind voice that should have been above her but wasn't.

Lucy's eyes had been closed, squeezing out tears, but they opened now to see the man squatting in front of her, trying to see if she was all right. Sniffling a little bit into her sleeve, she recognized him as the nice man who'd let her ride his horse once.

It was good to have a friend again.

"What is so horrible?" he asked as she peered up at him.

She stared at him dumbly, so relieved to have a comforter that she could barely speak.

"Come now," he said, moving over and sitting on the ground beside her. "I'm sure whatever it is can't be so bad as it seems."

A smile found its way onto her face. "I'm glad to see you."

"It's good to see you, too."

"How's Destrier?" She glanced over at his horse who was snorting in a contented enough matter just a little ways off.

"He's doing fine." Caspian told her. "Better at least than you seemed to be doing a moment ago."

Lucy sighed and finished wiping her eyes dry with the back of her hands.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Arranged marriage," she groaned, glad to be speaking to someone who didn't know who her bridegroom was, since everyone who knew went on and on about what a good man the king was...how wonderful, brave, considerate...blah blah blah...

"Goodness!" he exclaimed, clicking his tongue. "You too?"

This caught her attention; took the focus off of her own problem for a moment. "Someone's making _you _get married?"

"Yes, I suppose you're never too old to get pushed into things, not that it matters."

"How can it not matter?" Lucy asked, thinking that if he was content, and in the same boat as her, she might learn from him.

He shrugged his shoulders. "I love my first wife still, and she's gone. Doesn't matter who I marry in her place, she'll never be _her_."

Lucy couldn't help feeling a little sorry for the Telmarine-Narnian's bride, whoever she was, poor girl might be disappointed to know her betrothed thought so little of her. "She might be nice, though, you never know."

"I could say the same to you," he said, raising an eyebrow.

She shook her head. "I don't know."

"Hey, aren't you a little young to be getting married? How old are you anyway?"

"Nearly thirteen," said Lucy, wanting to gag on those words, as they were what her parents made her say now whenever anyone asked about her age. She wasn't allowed to say, "Oh, I'm twelve," anymore.

"People these days," muttered Caspian, looking annoyed.

"Tell me about it!" exclaimed Lucy, rolling her eyes.

"Well, I must say, I do hope it works out for the best for both of us." said Caspian, dusting himself off and standing up, reaching out to help Lucy to her feet.

She took his hand. "I hope your new wife is very nice."

"And I hope you like your bridegroom when you meet him."

"I hope so, too." she whispered in an almost teary voice.

"Now, then, please don't cry again-he might be a very good person."

"Everyone says he is," Lucy had to admit.

Caspian wanted to cheer her up, so he said, "Well, there you go."

"Thank you," she smiled again.

"Do you need a ride back into the village?" he asked her, walking over to Destrier.

"Oh, no thanks, I'll walk back in a little while, I just want to wait out here a bit longer."

Something in her tone tipped Caspian off to the fact that she wasn't just waiting around because she liked the lamppost; he was older, and he understood these things. "He doesn't deserve you, you know, whoever he is."

Her forehead crinkled. "What?" She thought he was talking about her unknown bridegroom, but that didn't seem to make sense with what he had been saying a few moments before.

"Whoever the young man you're waiting for is," he clarified. "If he doesn't come find you, he is not worth it."

Her eyes drifted up to the bright light on top of the post; she didn't want this man to see her start crying again, not after all he'd been doing to try and make her feel better.

Sorrowfully, he urged his horse onward, going into the village.

The very last thing Lucy wanted was to admit that Caspian was right. She wanted to believe in Edmund, in their unbreakable friendship, but it was getting harder and harder to do so. Why wasn't he here with her now? Why was she left staring up at the brightest light in all of Narnia, wondering where he was, if he was thinking about her at all, on her own? Since she had told him she was going to be queen, he'd become a completely apathetic figure in her life.

As a few hours ticked by, she steadied her quivering chin and held her head high. "I am going to be queen of Narnia," she told herself in a proud voice, wishing it didn't sound-and feel-so hollow. "It's time to go home."

When Lucy arrived back at the cottage, she got the biggest shock imaginable. Her parents told her the king had arrived, was waiting in the parlor, and wanted to meet her. Aunt Alberta was there, too, and she pinched her niece's cheeks to make them look pink before they led her inside.

"Ouch!" she protested as Peter pulled her away from their aunt's grasp, a faint snarl forming on his lips.

"There's no need for that, my daughter is perfectly lovely as she is." said Countess Helen, taking Lucy away from Peter's grip which he had unwittingly been tightening before his mother intervened.

"You could have at least had her brush her hair," sulked Aunt Albert, folding her arms across her chest.

"Oh, shut up," hissed Count Pevensie, frowning at his brother-in-law's wife.

"Ready?" Helen whispered in her daughter's ear.

Lucy nodded, but she didn't mean it.

Nevertheless, they led her into the parlor where the king was sitting. His back was turned to her at first, hissing something exasperatedly at Lord Sopespian and Lord Glozelle, but then he turned and looked at her. His eyes widened with something like horror as the realization dawned on him. _This _was Lucy Pevensie.

"You!" Lucy gasped, taking a step backwards, bumping into the wall of family members that stood right behind her.

"You know each other?" Peter asked, nearly as stunned as they were.

"You have got to be joking!" exclaimed Caspian, jumping up from the couch. "You expect me to marry a _child_?"

When Lucy had told him she was going to be married, he hadn't imagined her bridegroom to be older than sixteen or twenty, but now that he knew _he _was her betrothed, he didn't know what to do with himself.

"She's nearly thirteen," Aunt Alberta put her oar in automatically.

"You're the king?" Lucy still couldn't believe it.

As much as he wanted to keep on protesting, the shock slowly started to wear off, and reasonable thought returned. Caspian knew he couldn't back out on this marriage, not even if she was so much younger than him, everything had been arranged. A king of Narnia must not go back on his word; and he had given this family his word that he would marry their daughter.

Everyone's eyes on him-except for Peter and Lucy's-seemed to be asking only one thing, "Will you keep your promise?"

Yes, he thought sadly, I will keep my promise. "Forgive my out-burst, Count and Countess Pevensie, I will marry her."

**AN: Please review!**


	7. The Wedding

**AN: yes, you read the chapter title right, don't worry this isn't anywhere near the end of the story!**

How am I ever going to manage this much fabric? Lucy wondered, gazing down at the long train of her wedding dress. She had, being of noble-birth, been to events that required fancy dressing before, and had-though perhaps not as smoothly as would have been preferred-managed to get through an evening or two. But this particular gown!

It was very likely the most beautiful thing the tailor had ever designed-perfectly fit for a queen. Unfortunately, while she was about to be married to a king, Lucy didn't think she was quite queenly enough to deal with the ridiculously long train of water-smooth white velvet that followed every step she attempted to take. How was she supposed to walk in it?

After studying the train with a determined, bemused expression on her face for nearly five minutes, the answer came to her. She would simply have to fling it over one of her arms and carry it as if it were no more than a drape or tapestry. As she lifted the train, which felt far heavier than expected, she silently prayed it wouldn't snag on anything and rip. Lucy knew at least seven or eight people who would have an emotional break-down if anything happened to the dress before the ceremony-not including the tailor.

On her left wrist she could hear a thin stack of gold bangles clanging together. In truth, Lucy sort of hated those bangles; everything about them, right down to the sound they made. It wasn't because they weren't round, bright, prettily made bracelets, for they really were, it was that they had been given to her by Edmund's stepmother. And she'd known from the first that they'd been made in Calormen. Somehow, it seemed as though Calormen was a bad omen hovering over everything. It might have been a childish prejudice, left over from the thoughts of Edmund's rotten experience in that particular country, or it could have been something else altogether. At any rate, it wasn't that Lucy didn't like Calormene culture in its entirety, it was that so much of the way it was administered in those days irked her, and the last thing she needed right then was to be irked.

Was it possible to take off the bangles and pretend she had forgotten to put them on in the first place? No, that was dishonest, and since all eyes would be on her, someone was bound to notice and call her bluff. There were few things in the world Lucy hated as much as being called a liar. So she endured, trying to ignore the sound of the gold metal clanking together.

Her shoes-which she hadn't been able to see since she'd gotten the wedding dress on-were of silver satin and white non-talking deer-hide with in-laid gold thread, lined with crystal beads. They were comfortable, but they pinched her toes the slightest bit, making her wish occasionally that she could go about this whole thing in bare feet. Of course she couldn't, splendid though it was to imagine. It almost made her want to smile-picturing herself walking down to the ceremony with no shoes on-yet not quite.

Currently she was in a spare room in Sir Digory Kirke's manor that had been put aside for her. Lucy rather liked the room; it had a large apple-wood wardrobe, the sort that has a looking-glass on the door. Under her feet was a soft, springy carpet-neither new nor old, somewhere in-between.

Still holding her train over one arm, she took a step or two closer to the wardrobe, and studied her reflection in the looking-glass. A regal bride ought to have been staring back at her, yet she simply couldn't find her, no matter how hard she tried. There was only a little girl in a very elegant gown; her hair swept up into a grown-up half-braided twist with the plaits all spun into a neat knot, the rest of her hair left lose to flow down her back. The new hair-style didn't make much difference, it didn't really make her appear any older. She was still too young, still too short, and still too frightened-looking to be a proper bride.

How could she do this? She knew she had to, but how _could _she? One moment it felt like a dream, a mess from another element she was going to wake up from at any given second; then it would suddenly feel so real and fear would grip her heart all over again.

Distracted, Lucy didn't hear the door behind her opening, unaware that someone else was in the room with her until she looked away from her own flushed face, catching a glimpse of a very different reflection. A dark-haired boy in a scarlet tunic raised with silver thread.

"Edmund!" cried Lucy, spinning around so quickly that she dropped her train and nearly tripped over her own two feet.

"Hullo, Lu." he said, his smile weak and his voice low.

Swallowing hard, "I thought you wouldn't come."

"I promised, didn't I?" said Edmund, honestly, taking a step forward.

Lucy blinked in an almost sleepy sort of confusion, as if he were a puzzling phantom from a dream instead of her real best friend, come to her at long last-and about time, too! "Promised who?"

His Adam's apple bobbed upwards, stiffly holding back a cry. "I knew it would hurt you if I missed your wedding, if I didn't come to say goodbye."

The brook flashed in her mind; his words as she was before him, dripping and miserable, "I promise I will never hurt you again...I'll never, not ever."

"Thank you," she choked out wearily, tears streaming down her face.

"Oh, Lucy, when did I ever not keep my word to you?" he whispered, saddened by the expression of mourning mixed with relief on his childhood sweetheart's face. "I know I've been an ass at times, a perfectly beastly liar at that, but when did I ever give you my word and break it completely?"

"You stopped coming to meet me," Lucy murmured, staring straight into his eyes now. "Why did you do that?"

I had to, I knew that it was hopeless, thought Edmund, shaking his head sorrowfully. Out loud he only said, "Don't ask me that. Please, Lucy-Lu, if you've ever cared for me at all, don't ask that."

"Look," Lucy took something out from under the front of her dress-a necklace she'd been concealing there, its pedant shaped like a dagger.

He smiled through his pain, happy to see she was still wearing it. "At least you have something to remember us by." Even to his own ears, the tone in which he said 'us' in was too tender sounding, and he knew she caught that. So he quickly added, "To remember our friendship by, I mean."

Her face fell. "Oh, we're still friends, aren't we?"

Edmund nodded, not saying anything.

Lucy wandered over to a small stand where her wedding headdress was; a slim, laurel-shaped band of white-gold from which hung white-and-cream brocade in a raised designed, coming down almost to her thighs when she wore it.

Seeing the girl he loved as a bride in full costume, knowing that he was not-would never be-the bridegroom, pained Edmund more deeply than he let on at the time. Later, he confessed that it felt like knives cutting into him and something stronger than human hands squeezing the breath out of his throat and the feeling out of his chest.

Their eyes met again as she turned around, and a new expression came into Lucy's eyes, the bud inside of them that had been there so long without making a peep, cracking open just the littlest bit as she gazed at Edmund who was no longer hers.

In a faltering gasp, Lucy whispered, "I wish it were you."

Without knowing it, selfish as such a desire might have seemed, part of Edmund had been wanting to hear that-just to know that if things were different, if they lived in a world without family pride and royalty, she would have been with him. In truth, he was well aware now, from the village talkers, that she was fond of Caspian-and he believed in time she really would be happy with the king-but this was his portion. Those five little words were all he had.

Putting his arms around her, he embraced her and held her close. In a few moments he had to let go, knowing it was time for her to go downstairs and wed the king, but he took her free hand (the other was hoisting her train over her arm again so she could walk) and led her out of the room.

Count Pevensie had agreed to let Peter be the one to lead Lucy down into the entryway of the room the wedding was to be held in; but as soon as Peter saw Edmund walking out of the spare room holding her hand, he backed away, letting them pass.

The count, seeing this, shook his head and gently pried their trembling fingers apart, placing his daughter's hand into his son's. A firm nod in his direction alerted Edmund to the fact that he ought to be with his sister and the rest of the guests, and so he went.

"Father," whispered Peter into the count's ear, trying to make it so Lucy couldn't hear it, although it's likely she did anyway. "I hate this."

"I know," he sighed softly, "I know."

The ceremony proceeded solemnly-there weren't many smiles. The precious few that were there seemed mostly to be either put-on, or else on the lips of the aged and senile.

Caspian noticed his little betrothed trembling at his side and held her hand for part of the wedding speech. This was a kind gesture, there wasn't any custom that urged him to do that, he was simply concerned for her.

When she was sure she could risk it, Lucy looked away from the man who was nearly her husband now, over at Edmund standing beside his sister and stepmother. His face was at its palest and his jaw was clenched. Her own brows were wet, her hands clammy with sweat, she knew how he was feeling.

Her left hand was pulled at then, and she could feel Caspian sliding a gold band onto her ring finger. Biting her lip, she swallowed her tears as a small red dwarf attendant with a grumpy demeanor but very nice face-she liked him-handed her the ring to put on her husband's hand.

Caspian couldn't help feeling a little sick to his stomach. Poor, poor Lucy. Her wedding-ring had been such a small size, like a child's ring. No, it _was _a child's ring, that was why he felt so queasy. His only comfort in being her bridegroom was that he could at least be sure she would be treated right and lead a comfortable life, that much he could promise her. He didn't know about Edmund, only vaguely that there was some young man she may have distantly fancied, but he barely thought about that.

When King Caspian and Lady Lucy were announced as husband and wife, Edmund looked away. Susan glanced briefly over at Peter, thinking how funny it was that in a fortnight, when Caspian's bride was crowned, he would be brother to the queen of Narnia.

Lucy held a weak grin on her face while Caspian lifted up her hand as they walked out of the room (this was custom) but everyone attributed that to shyness and said it was 'sweet', and wasn't the king's bride the dearest little thing ever seen?

Peter gulped and watched as they made their exit. Of course he knew all that was going to happen was that Lucy was going to be taken back to the spare room for the night, while Caspian went to the wing put aside for him and his advisors, so that they could all get a good night's rest before leaving the next day, but it was still upsetting.

In a large, unfamiliar bed, wrapped in sheets that felt scratchy, Lucy buried herself under a heavy comforter, in spite of the fact that the room was actually quite warm, and slept on and off all night with damp eyelashes and shivers racking her shoulders.

No one came to her. Not even Peter dared to think he could risk a late night visit and attempt to console her, though there was nothing more in the whole of the wide world he wanted to do.

And Edmund? He didn't sleep in a bed at all that night. Since the door no longer squeaked, he walked out of his house, through the deserted village at an ungodly hour, and spent his night sitting against the lamppost, resting under its warm yellow glow.

When the sun began to rise, his tired body drenched in dew, he rose up and wandered unsteadily back home. It is most likely that his absence that night was noticed, if not by his father or stepmother then at least by Susan, but none of them said anything about it to him as he took his breakfast in obviously less than fresh garments, his hair ruffled and uncombed, and his eyes blood-shot.

Before she was to leave in a grand procession with her husband to start on the trip to Cair Paravel (she would see the eastern sea as she had often imagined she would, however different these particular circumstances were from her day-dreams), Lucy went to see Edmund. Somehow she knew she would find him, this time, at the stone wall by the brook instead of the lamppost. Whether he was waiting for her, hoping she'd come, or simply despairing on his own some more, is debatable, but nevertheless she did come.

Lucy stood before him in a new dress, her traveling gown; white, with a pale pinkish hue to it. The braids she'd worn on the top of her head were undone, falling over the straighter strands in crimped waves. He thought she was absolutely beautiful.

"Your Highness," said Edmund, a catch in his throat, keeping his emotions in check.

While she was not yet crowned queen, Lucy was a royal consort now-not a Majesty just yet, but certainly royal-a highness.

And she watched in baffled dismay as Edmund, her quick-witted, dark childhood companion, bowed to her as if he were simply greeting a strange princess who had approached him.

As he lifted up his eyes, expecting to see her standing above him still, Edmund was surprised to see she wasn't there. "Lu-" he began, his gaze shifting downwards.

She had bent down under him so that they were on the same level more or less; not a subject bowing to a king's bride, just two friends saying goodbye.

"Don't do that, Edmund."

He lifted himself upright, knowing she would do the same. "Sorry,"

"Oh, Ed!" Lucy threw her arms around his middle and held on tightly. "Promise me you wont forget...when I go away...promise..."

"Lucy," he said, pulling away from her embrace and touching the side of her face lightly. "Don't you know I already did? It was in this very place, wasn't it?"

Shaking her head at the memory, a half-smile on her face, Lucy looked out at the brook, recalling the day Edmund had pushed her into it. She remembered Aslan, too. How she wished that wonderful Lion was there right then! He would understand, even things that Edmund couldn't, Aslan would understand-he would have helped her.

Two hours later, Lucy was hugging her brother goodbye, her parents planting kisses on her cheeks as a dryad attendant helped her up onto the back of a gorgeous white horse, a little mare with short legs.

"I'll come to Cair Paravel soon, Lucy." Peter swore to her. "And I'm always there...if you need me...even if I'm not _there_ yet..."

"I love you, Peter." Lucy whispered as he reached up and squeezed her hand.

"Love you, too, Lucy."

The village people were throwing white and purple flower petals. They blew every which way, some of them landing on the ground, others landing on Lucy's shoulder or in her hair, or else on a servant's arm, or even the side of Caspian's tunic.

Edmund appeared in the midst of all of them, walking right up to the side of Lucy's horse, looking at her very hard, taking her in one last time.

She goggled sadly at him, reaching down into the front of her dress and discreetly lifting out the dagger pedant quickly just so he could catch a glimpse of her still with it.

Then Edmund took the lead-rope of Lucy's horse in hand, walking a while with the royal servants and ladies-in-waiting. For most of that trek-they were heading down towards the lamppost-he kept his eyes straight ahead.

When they reached the lamppost and the royal party was about to go past it, Edmund let go of the lead-rope and handed it back to the servants, who took it graciously and marched on.

To Caspian, Edmund bowed quickly and respectfully, getting a polite nod of acknowledgement in return. King Caspian didn't know why Sir Peter's squire had wanted to follow them all the way out of the village, accompanying the soon-to-be queen, but he accepted it as a kind, worthy action. Rather noble, too, he thought.

The tears came again as Lucy glanced back over her shoulder at Edmund standing beside the lamppost, watching her disappear into the forest and into her new life.

There wasn't a soul alive who would believe her when she said this afterwards, but upon her last glimpse, Lucy could have sworn, if only for a fraction of a second, that she saw the lantern atop its great iron post flicker.

**AN: Please leave a review. **


	8. Risky Futures

**AN: Some of the content in the middle of this chapter (namely some drinking, nothing too bad, I promise) is part of the reason this fic is rated T.**

Cair Paravel was quite possibly the most awe-inspiring building Lucy had ever seen in her life. It was enormous, loaded with vast wings and chambers; so many rooms that she could never possibly come to know them all. It was home to the king's household as well as to the high-ranking courtiers; a great castle of domes and extra passageways and great towers, some with large bells like in a cathedral.

The dwarf who had waited on the king and his new bride at their wedding ceremony that Lucy had taken a liking to-who's name was Trumpkin, by the way-helped them dismount. He placed a little foot-stool near the side of Lucy's horse so that it would be less of a drop for her. It wouldn't have been much of a drop anyway, since her horse was the littlest of the whole royal party, but it was still helpful, and she smiled kindly at the little red-bearded man as she alighted.

"Come, Lucy, I must show you into your new home." said Caspian, motioning for her to follow him up a set of flagstone steps and through a pair of mahogany double-doors.

Tired from the long trip and overwhelmed by the sheer size of the place she would be expected to call home for the rest of her life, Lucy blinked in a dazed manner and trotted along after him. She was wearing yet another traveling dress, this one dark blue with gold-leaf embroidery, and she was bare-headed with all her long hair loose.

The throne room had a glittering glass roof and everything seemed to be made of precious metals and marble; great columns rising on the sides. Solid gold carvings of the great Lion of Narnia and bright billowy tapestries with Narnian crests sewn into them decorated the walls.

Lucy was far from finished taking all this splendor in when a golden-haired, starry-eyed young man about Peter's age entered through a side door and approached her. His tunic, jerkin, and tights were all ebony black, making him look rather, she thought, like Hamlet; except for his slightly worn, silver-buckle leather shoes, which were brown.

When he reached the young consort, he knelt down, propped on one knee, took one of her hands, kissed it, and said, "Mother, I am your son, eldest and only child, welcome to the family, and please, in the name of Aslan, give us a blessing so that we may be happy again."

More than merely taken aback, Lucy was positively astonished. She understood that this was Caspian's son, Rilian, now her stepson, but she was at a lost for what to say to him. Somehow she had not thought of how strange it would feel to be a mother to someone the same age as her beloved elder brother. What was more, she had not expected him to be so welcoming of her. Actually, if she had thought of Rilian at all, it was only in a distant hope that he might not resent her too deeply and that they could perhaps be friends.

Noticing she was not answering, Rilian said, "My mother, my father's dear first wife, was lost to us tragically, as you know. You shall be the new lady of the family, even before you are queen, so I beseech you once more, mother, bless us so that this court may know what it is to feel joy again."

Lucy glanced over her shoulder at her husband and mouthed, "What do I say?"

Caspian tried-somewhat in vain-to hold back a smile, wanting to be encouraging to his startled new wife. "What ever you like, Lucy, you're his stepmother."

Rilian kissed his stepmother's hand again, more lightly this time.

It tickled and a giggle escaped. "Aslan bless you," squeaked out of her in-between bouts of checked laughter.

At this, Rilian smiled broadly and tucked her hand under his arm. "Thank you, Mother. Father and I will now show you to your chambers."

Looking over her shoulder, Lucy shot Caspian a nervous, "Did I do that all right?" glance. The playful, warm grin that appeared on his lips and in his eyes reassured her, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

The three of them wandered down many long corridors filled with pretty looking-glasses, red-and-gold tapestries, purple and midnight-blue curtains, and oil paintings-some of old royalty with very nice faces, and others that Lucy knew she would not have liked to meet in real life.

Finally, after what felt like ages, they stopped at a set of golden double-doors engraved with designs like stars and in-laid with twinkling pieces of rich indigo-coloured sapphires.

"Mother, this is where the queen lives when she is not with the king," Rilian announced in a very important-sounding tone, standing with his hands behind his back.

"As you can see, my first wife," here Caspian paused for a moment, remembering her and feeling pained, knowing still, however, that he must press on-that he had a new wife who needed looking after, a new little bride who needed a place to call her own. He cleared his throat and tried again, "My first wife-she had it decorated to her liking-but if you should like anything altered to suit your tastes, you only need ask."

Lucy blinked to let him know she was listening; she felt very awkward at this subject, seeing the suffering and lost reflected behind Rilian's politeness and welcoming as well.

Without further ado, the doors were flung open and Lucy took a staggering step forward. Such a glorious room she had never beheld before, nor even imagined. It was nearly as large her cottage and Edmund's house combined; painted comets that looked as if they were really moving and blazing at impossibly slow speeds lined the borders, and there was a bed so spacious that-since its comforter was a murky blue-one could easily mistake it for a small lake.

If there was one thing wrong about it, it was that evidently the last queen had liked the colour blue with a bit too much intensity. There were precious few specks of red or orange to be found, except for the bright painting of what she could only assume was supposed to be Aslan, on the far-off back wall. As most of the sills had been painted sky-blue, it seemed nothing short of a miracle that the large two-door wardrobe was actually still a solid-looking brown. Lucy understood now what Caspian had meant. She didn't want to alter the room too greatly, thinking it might make them a little weary of her, impeding on what had once been someone else's, but she really did see the need to make a few small changes.

"Mother," said Rilian, walking over to the wardrobe, waving his hand for her to come near. "You're going to love this."

She went to him, Caspian right behind her, and watched as he opened the wardrobe doors and pushed aside a rack of dark purple ceremonial robes. Behind the robes was a gaping black space so unending it made Lucy a little dizzy to focus on it for too long.

"It is a secret passageway," Caspian explained, his face forlorn. "It leads right into the apple orchard out back."

"It really is the finest orchard there ever was-the talking moles planted it for us when I was seven." said Rilian; he was bragging, but perhaps that can be excused since it truly was a very fine orchard-everyone who saw it seemed to agree on this.

"Who else knows about this?" asked Lucy, feeling curious now that she knew what the great hole was for.

"Only myself and father." said Rilian; he didn't bother pointing out that his mother had known, since she was dead and the dead knew nothing at all.

"And now you, of course, Lucy." added Caspian.

They all stood still for a moment. Rilian closed the doors again after replacing the robe-rack with a heavy sigh. None of them seemed to know what to do next.

Then Caspian said, "Lucy, there is something I wanted to give you, but you must swear to take good care of it and to never, ever use it lightly."

"I..." Lucy stammered, sensing that it was going to be something very grand indeed, still overwhelmed by everything else. "...I swear..."

"Very good," Caspian lifted a floor-board to the right of the wardrobe and pulled out a small dark purple case.

Lucy watched, dumbfounded, as he opened it and took out a small flask with a shinny dark gold stopper made from the very prettiest kind of glass you could ever imagine-or at least, that was what she thought it was made of at first sight. The flask was full of some sort of blood-coloured liquid that sparkled like watery rubies.

"This is a vial of magical cordial made from the juice of the fire berries on Ramandu's island. It was dowry for my first wife; it belongs to Narnia now, but it is the queen that must always possess it and look after it."

"But," said Lucy, staring at it with wide eyes and a half-smile, "what's it for?"

"It can heal any injury," Caspian told her. "But you can see why-as there isn't an endless supply of the stuff-it's only for great emergencies."

Taking the little flask in her hands, Lucy said, "Is it glass?" She had never seen-nor felt-such glass before, it seemed too perfect to be mere glass.

"My first wife thought it was made from diamond." he said.

"I see," said Lucy, promising to look after it from then on.

Meanwhile, what had become of Edmund after Lucy's leaving the Lantern Waste? Well, unlike Lucy, he had no new sights to distract himself with, and without her he found little pleasure in roaming about the village. He did so anyway, often with a blank expression, marching around with his sword by the brook if he could get up early enough to avoid anyone who would want to make small talk. Otherwise he stayed at home doing absolutely nothing.

At seven he would sit down to work on an improving book; ten of the clock would roll around and he would still be on the first page-any fool able to tell he hadn't read a single word. By noon his father would get annoyed, but Susan and the half-Calormene stepmother always calmed him.

"Oh, do let him be, husband," the stepmother would say with a shake of her head. "It's better for Eddie to do some grounded studies than to run about all day long, wearing himself to a shadow."

It was Susan who became the most concerned over his well-being in the end, though. She was the one who noticed his ghost-like way of going about the house in those days, almost as if he wasn't really there. While he did his best to put on a vague show of at least taking in something to eat each day, he wasn't consistent, and his sister noticed he was getting thinner and paler. What frightened her the most was that he started to have headaches in the mornings; Edmund had never gotten headaches before.

The cause of these remained a mystery until late one night, Susan awoke with a dry throat, needing a drink of water. When she came downstairs very quietly, trying not to wake anyone up, as proper ladies are raised to be considerate of others, she spotted her little brother sitting at the table in the middle of the dinning chamber.

In front of him was a large crystal decanter with the stopper removed. Apparently he had been pouring himself a few glasses of whatever was in there; some sort of strong wine or ale.

Horrified, Susan felt her shoulders shudder violently. What Edmund had in the mornings weren't headaches after all-they were hangovers. She watched aghast as he finished a glass, reached for the decanter with shaking hands, and started to pour himself another one.

"By Aslan!" whisper-cried Susan, rushing to his side. "How long have you been doing this?"

Edmund turned to face her, a frown etched between his brows. "Leave me alone, Su, will you?"

"Ed, how on earth did you get this anyway?" she demanded, reaching over the table and taking the decanter out of his reach, noticing he was half-way through his glass again. "Father keeps the wine cellar locked."

"Ooh, the key behind the bookcase, _great _hiding spot-I would never have thought to look _there_!" Edmund exclaimed sarcastically, putting his forehead down in his right hand. "Just go away."

"Edmund, it's time you went to bed, I'll put this beastly stuff away." Susan told him, trying to get the nearly-empty glass out of his hands.

"Oh, go to bed yourself!" he snapped, rolling his eyes.

"You shouldn't drink..."

"Yes, Mum." he sneered, getting up and walking over to where his sister had moved the decanter.

Desperate, Susan grabbed his wrist. "Edmund, I know you miss Lucy dreadfully, and I'm sorry she's married now and gone away, but if you do this...if you ruin yourself...I am going to miss my little brother just as much."

"Susan..." he whispered, reaching up to brush away his sister's tears; "...don't cry."

"Promise me you wont drink anymore, Ed." Susan grasped his hands and squeezed them so tightly that they nearly lost all feeling.

"I can't." he said, shaking his head. "I can't promise that."

"Oh, Lion have mercy on us, Ed!" wept Susan, still clinging to his hands. "You _can _promise, I know you're strong enough."

"I cannot," said Edmund.

"Anyone can do anything-so long as they really want to."

"Really?" he said with an eyebrow raised. "Could you go to Peter and ask him if he still wants to marry you?"

Stunned, Susan let go of his hands. The little stinker had made his point, though in such a very beastly manner that she thought she should very much like to box his ears for it.

"Edmund, how dare you-"

"You were right," Edmund got out of her grip and started walking towards the stairs. "It is late, I'm going to bed after all."

Understandably, Susan found it impossible to fall back asleep herself that night after she put away the glass and the decanter. For nearly a half-hour she debated putting the key in a new place so that Edmund couldn't find it again, but she thought her father would be suspicious if the key were not where he'd left it. Besides, she knew her younger brother might very well find the new hiding place just as quickly as the old. After all, Susan was not very creative when it came to secret nooks and the like, which was why she'd always lost at hide-and-seek as a child.

When she went back upstairs, she stopped by Edmund's room, just to be sure he really was asleep and not just waiting for her to go to bed before sneaking downstairs for another drink. His sleep was genuine, yet not at all restful. Tossing and turning fitfully, a few moans escaped him. While not exactly drunk, Susan was well aware that he was not entirely in his senses just then, even after sleep had claimed him.

Seeing him like this made her realize something: one day, she might be very nearly that hopeless herself. She wasn't at all sure she would react the same way after Sir Peter married someone else, never having been much of a drinker-except at events-and rather too practical to waste her days away, but the general sense of sorrow day in and day out was what scared her. She and Edmund were siblings after all, more alike than most persons realized. Was this her future, too? Oh, Aslan, please no! To sink so low as that...the horror!

Susan was then snapped out of her thoughts because she thought she heard Edmund say something to her. For a moment she squinted at him, waiting for him to repeat himself, until she remembered that her little brother often talked in his sleep when he was upset. No surprises there after all.

Now here is a matter of uncertainty; Susan always said to anyone who asked that Edmund had, without shadow of doubt in her mind, murmured Lucy's name. Edmund, though, denied it adamantly throughout his life, much as his sister insisted that he wouldn't know, seeing as he'd been in a borderline-drunken slumber at the time.

It was then, after hearing this, that Susan came to a resolution. Nothing would bring her to such a state as her brother was in; she would take the matter of her future into her own hands even if it ruined her. And it very well might, she thought fearfully, seeing as there seemed only one horrid way to go about it. Worse still was knowing that she must do it at once; for she knew in the morning light she would lose her nerve completely and do nothing of the sort. Her only comfort was that if she did nothing, judging by Edmund, she was just as ruined as if her plan failed her; if he said no.

In a hurry, Susan ran to her room, threw a dressing-gown over herself, dashed quickly and quietly down the stairs, and went straight out the door.

The night was cool and the air felt moist; but as there weren't a lot of clouds blocking the stars and the half-moon's glow, it didn't seem likely to rain.

In front of the Pevensie's cottage, Dame Macready, cursed with a case of insomnia that made her even more cross and strict that usual, was outside with a wash-basin cleaning clothes and hanging them up on the line to dry, figuring it would be best to put her restlessness to good use until she could do something about it.

Susan approached the front door just in time to hear the woman say, "Who's there?" She was tried and it was very dark out in spite of the moonlight.

"It's only me," said Susan, holding her breath, unsure if she would be allowed to pass. Would there be a row kicked up? Would the whole village know of her disgrace before morning dawned?

Dame Macready could tell it was a lady, and in her weariness she mistook Lady Susan Philippe for the Countess, out for a late night stroll, perhaps unable to sleep, too. Nodding, she turned back to her basin and scrubbed at a stubborn juice stain on one of Count Pevensie's doublets with all her might.

So Susan went inside and quickly navigated through the small cottage, finding Peter's room (strange to think it was only his now, no longer shared with Lucy) without any trouble.

The door wasn't open; but it wasn't latched either. In a moment she had let herself in and sat down at the foot of the bed, staring at the sleeping lump buried under the covers that she knew must be Sir Peter.

"Peter," she whispered, lifting the covers at the bottom and touching his left foot lightly in an attempt to wake him up.

In his sleep, he kicked her hand away and muttered, "Hang it all, Lu, do go back to sleep-we can talk in the morning." He thought it was Lucy, having been used to sharing the room and bed with her for so long (the beavers had not gotten the new wall up after all, it had just been put off until even Count Pevensie forgot all about it).

"Peter," she said again, swallowing hard. "It's not Lucy...Lucy's gone to Cair Paravel, remember?"

He remembered all right. Instantly wondering who was sitting on his bed talking to him, he woke up completely and lit a candle on the night-stand.

"Susan?" he gasped, recognizing her. "What are you doing here?"

A sob escaped her throat. She hadn't meant to come over and start crying, but she couldn't help it. Everything was too horrible for words; and she had no one else to turn to.

"What's the matter?" he asked, thinking for a moment that maybe she was hurt or that something had gone wrong in the village.

She shook her head.

"If nothing's wrong, then why are you here? So late at night..." asked Peter, still concerned.

"I don't know what to do anymore," she wept, putting her hands over her face. "Don't hate me for coming to you like this, I've nothing else for it."

"Susan," he said, scooting closer to her. "I could never hate you, surely you know that. But, I say, what's happened? Is there no one left for you to turn to anymore?"

She put her head down in his lap. "Who can help me now, Peter? Am I not ruined if you send me away?"

He understood. Reaching down and stroking her hair, he whispered, "Oh, Susan, why did you come now? You might have come to me about this long before."

"I don't want to end up like Edmund." she cried softly. "If you saw him now...it's so awful..."

"From the little bit I've seen of him lately, he does look unwell." Peter admitted.

"He drinks, Peter, I saw him with the decanter earlier tonight."

Peter winced. "Do you want me to talk to him?"

Susan sat up and gazed at him in amazement. "Would you?"

"He is my squire," he reminded her. And, he thought but didn't say out loud, I hope, my future brother-in-law.

"Come on, Su," Peter stood up and offered her his hand. "I'll take you home."

"You'll-" Susan's voice faltered; "You'll come with me?"

"I don't see what harm it could do. If, Aslan willing, someone sees us and there's a scandal, we might just stand a chance after all."

Putting his arm around her, he led her down the cottage stairs.

"You should know, the Macready saw me come in." Susan confessed in a hushed tone.

Peter's eyes widened. "Did she recognize you?"

"I don't know," said Susan, "she's seen me often enough to know me by sight."

"Peter?" someone behind them said, sounding confused.

They turned to see the Count and Countess standing there in their nightclothes looking alarmed, all the more stunned as they noticed his arm around Susan.

"What the devil is going on here?" the count asked, rubbing his eyes.

"Susan came to talk to me, and now I'm taking her home." Peter explained shortly, not sure if it would work.

"What will the neighbors say if they see you?" Helen muttered, tugging anxiously at her husband's sleeve.

"If this gets out you'll have to marry her," said Count Pevensie palely.

The Count had never disliked Lady Susan, not even a little bit, he had simply been annoyed with her parents. Now that he had shown them a thing or two by marrying his daughter off to a king, and it had left him feeling a little empty, he wasn't truly opposed to the match. He was much too proud to go back and ask for her hand in marriage for his son, and too proud to accept it if the family gave it of their own accord, but if it were simply done reluctantly on both sides to avoid giving a good knight and a fine lady a bad name, dragging their honours in the mud, well, then that might be all right.

Peter hid a smile. "Well, I'm a man of honour, I'll marry her if it will keep us both out of any disgrace."

**AN: Please review.**


	9. Knights & Seed Pearls

It may comfort the reader to know that Peter had his talk with Edmund and was gradually able to get his squire to stop drinking. True, it was something of a hard running at first; and Susan was none too pleased with her brother, rather in the same way a mother is more angry with her own child rushing out recklessly into overt danger than she is with a stranger. Anyone else who had recently become a drinker merited pity from her, whereas her little brother got a scowl, tears, and angry facial expressions by the bucket-load.

Lucy was never told anything at all about this point of time in Edmund's life. This period was the dark age of the Philippe boy's existence, and he preferred not to harp on it. So, without going into detail, it would be sufficient to say that-with help-he kicked his own enforced habit, started going on more and more trips to where ever Sir Peter would send him (since he seemed less inclined to touch drink if he was away from the common, now-bleak, sights of his home village), and eventually qualified for knighthood himself.

In the meantime Lucy had been crowned queen in one of the grandest ceremonies seen in Narnia in at least a half-decade. A silver crown that was solid-but not at all heavy-with eight diamond diadems was placed on her head, and everyone shouted, "Long live the queen!"

One group of small animals-squirrels, beavers, and ermines-standing up on their hind legs, clearly _talking_ creatures as opposed to the other kind, had come in and watched the coronation from behind the legs of a very tall black-and-white centaur, and had cried out, after everyone else had finished and the room was slowly retreating back into dead-silence, "Long live Queen Lucy!"

This was so unexpected, and so funny how it happened out of turn, that Lucy's serious, anxious little face that had, up till then, been peering down nervously from the great dais at her courtiers and high-ranking subjects, began to smile and then to giggle madly.

Everyone present-including Caspian, Rilian, and the small animals who had caused the laughter in the first place-thought she was a perfect darling for it, and adored the new queen all the more so. Even those who had stubbornly willed themselves not to like her couldn't help noticing the natural goodness in this child, thinking rather that with the passing of time she might grow up to be a very wonderful queen after all. She was already loveable; most of the castle folk at Cair Paravel thought they would willingly lay down their lives for her at the drop of a hat; so such an out-come was not unlikely.

"How do you feel?" Caspian asked afterwards, leading her down from the dais after the coronation was completed.

"I don't know," Lucy whispered, her cheeks flushed pink, "ask me later."

That very night there had been a ball in her honour and she'd danced with her husband the king, though they did look such a very odd pair to everyone except for apparently Rilian, who had at first loved his stepmother only out of duty but now felt the sun rose on her in the mornings instead of on the east, and said quite clearly that they were the prettiest sight in the castle since his dear first mother had been lost in death.

A week after this, a letter from Peter arrived which read:

_My dear sister Lucy, _

_How are you? I hope all is well for you, and regret not coming and finding out for myself._

_I am terribly sorry I missed your coronation-I apologize for this both as your elder brother and as a knight of the court of Narnia, as I'm sure the other knights were all present-and that I was not near the east as quickly as I promised. Some complications came to light that compelled me to send out a companion of mine on a much needed trip, and to do some traveling in Ettinsmoor myself. (Grandfather says Hello, by the way). _

_While in Ettinsmoor I had the misfortune of meeting up with some giants. As it is my duty as a knight of Narnia to fight and to keep the borders safe as far as it depends on me, I was detained. Now, don't get upset, I know you, Lu, and that as you're reading this, you must be panicking over my safety, but I assure you I am completely unharmed _

_Anyway, I am still in Ettinsmoor now as I am writing this-which should explain the funny-looking post marks you are bound to find all over this letter when it reaches you. I apologize, dear heart, my precious sister, that I cannot come to see you once I leave this area, either. _

_There are matters over at the Lantern Waste I must attend to. I don't know if you've heard that I'm betrothed to Lady Susan Philippe again? Well, I am and there's some rot from the family about some issues I won't bore you with. What's more is that the companion I mentioned earlier in this letter is likely to return to the western woods, and I fear that without my guidance he may go astray and turn to things that will bring him into trouble. I'll not tell you his name, Lucy, so you needn't ask nor plead, for I simply cannot, you must trust me, but I assure you that if you knew who he was, you would not be cross with my having to help him out as well as dealing with matters of my recent engagement. _

_I love you always,_

_Your brother and devoted knight,_

_Peter Pevensie _

The 'companion' Peter spoke of was of course Edmund, though Lucy hadn't the foggiest clue. She did, in her letter back, ask about Edmund, but when Peter finally got around to returning her letter he completely left out any mention of his betrothed's brother. When she wrote to Edmund himself she didn't get any replies; but did not give up trying.

Because he was away, most of the letters didn't reach him until long after they'd originally been sent out, and he was a bit embarrassed to reply to them then. Yet, to be fair, he did keep each and every one, reading them over and over again. There were few things he liked better than to sit in the evenings with a hot drink (tea or cocoa), to take out the old tin box he'd put the papers in for safe-keeping, and to read her words by firelight.

There were nights, when he gazed into the orange glow with his eyes half-closed, playing her words over and over in his mind, remembering every moment of their childhood together, Edmund could almost pretend she was sitting right next to him.

Painful as it was to envision, since he knew it could never be, upon occasion Edmund imagined-in stunning detail-what it would have been like if he had been Lucy's bridegroom instead of the king. He never pictured a wedding; his mind always went straight to the afterwards, what their life together might have felt like. Her head on his shoulder on a cold winter evening, their fingers intertwined, the once-familiar breathing coming from the other side of his bed at night; all the little memories that he could never have.

Then, a lump in his throat and a feeling of over-all loneliness would make him reach over to crumble up her letters for the sake of throwing them into the fire, so that he might forget. But he couldn't do it. His hands would not obey his pounding heart and reeling mind and destroy all he had left; they would merely put them back in their proper places until the next time.

_I wish it were you_, she had said, right before her wedding, he recalled gloomily.

"You know what, Lu?" Edmund would whisper to himself in a hoarse voice, wiping away a few stray teardrops. "So do I."

For the most part things were going well for Peter and Susan; but the 'rot' to which Peter alluded in his letter was unavoidable. And not really all that surprising when you thought of how much pride-swallowing was still called for in spite of their mild 'we're doing this to avoid a scandal' excuse.

When the issue was first brought up, Susan's father crossly demanded to know if Count Pevensie was insinuating that his daughter was a whore. Which, needless to say, since he was implying nothing of the sort, the count took great offence to.

The half-Calormene stepmother and Countess Helen spoke to each other only when absolutely necessary; preferring to use Peter as a sort of go-between most of the time, which was one of the reasons he had to return to the Lantern Waste, or else nothing would have been sorted.

In the end, it was finally agreed that the wedding could be held a few days after Edmund was knighted at Cair Paravel. That way the young couple could be married at court instead of simply in the village. Which was more than even Queen Lucy had gotten, the half-Calormene stepmother whispered to Susan when the count and countess were not listening. And Susan rolled her eyes, wishing the wedding could be over and done with before something _else _went wrong, holding them back from being man and wife.

Edmund did not at all like this arrangement and sulkily demanded why Peter, being a knight of reasonably high-authority, couldn't just dub his squire himself. He wasn't sure he could endure seeing Lucy as a queen face-to-face. For pity's sake, he couldn't even will himself to write back to her, knowing the two of them-once the closest of friends-would never be the same again. But Peter calmly explained that while he did have some rights to pass on titles under certain circumstances, it would almost entirely break with tradition if a Narnian-born gentleman was not dubbed properly by the queen when there was no political reason he couldn't be, especially since it was a new queen-only just crowned.

"They would consider it a matter of allegiance to her, Ed, surely you understand that." said Peter one day as they were walking down by the stone wall at the brook, their swords on their hips, looking quite noble.

"What rubbish!" exclaimed Edmund, folding his arms crossly. "I can be loyal to a queen of Narnia without-"

"It wouldn't look proper." Peter warned him, playing on Edmund's sense of justice, wearing on his overt bitterness. "Think of what everyone would say."

"Peter, I understand, and I will do it-I'll go to Cair Paravel to be dubbed-I'll even become a bloody courtier if they end up wanting me to stay-I will do whatever they want of me, because I am as loyal to Narnia as you are; but do you really think, after all that's happened, I give a care about what other people think about me, or scandals, or how things _look_?"

"Your father would say you are a born Philippe, just a little rough around the edges, and that you will care eventually." Peter grimaced, none too pleased with his future father-in-law.

"I used to care," said Edmund contradictingly. "I never will again."

"I'm sorry," Peter said softly, putting his hand on his squire's shoulder.

"It's not your fault," Edmund replied; "but I want to ask you something-something I've been wondering about lately."

"Sure, what is it?"

"If things had been different, and your parents had wanted Lucy to marry someone else, somebody closer to her own age-hypothetically, let's say, I don't know, me-would you have given your blessing then, or would you have still been angry?"

Peter thought it over, weighing his growing fondness for Edmund against his protectiveness of Lucy. It was a moot question, no doubt about it, but it was an interesting one all the same.

"She was too young to be married," he spoke at last, shaking his head. "But I think-I don't know for certain, but I do think-that, with time, I would have given you my blessings."

"She sounds happy in her letters," Edmund said, changing the subject a little bit, "don't you think?"

"Yeah, she does," that fact did make Peter feel a little better. "I think she really misses you, though. She asks about you all the time. Ever thought of writing her back?"

"Well, of course I've _thought _about it," said Edmund cheekily; "I just haven't _done_ it!"

"So," said Peter, forcing a laugh, "do you think you'll trip walking up the dais to be knighted?"

"That would be quite a show," the squire cracked a small smile.

"Can you keep a secret?"

"No," smirked Edmund, just to be smart.

"Well, I'll tell you anyway; I almost tripped when I went up there."

"Liar, you're just saying that because for some demented reason you think it's going to make me feel less nervous."

"Am not."

"Are too!"

"All right, hang it all, so I didn't trip!" Peter laughed, his mirth genuine this time. "Not everyone is as well-balanced as me."

"Or as modest," Edmund added sarcastically with a short eye-roll.

"You'll be fine, trust me."

Edmund couldn't help thinking that Peter was one of the few people he still had faith in-it was a remarkably small, constantly shrinking list, but Sir Peter Wolf's Bane had always managed to keep himself on it.

When Lucy found out she was to dub her first knight (she didn't know it was Edmund right away because it wasn't until the day before the ceremony that someone actually bothered to mention his name) she was rather nervous.

"Don't worry, Mother," Rilian had attempted to reassure her. "Everything will be quite fine so long as you don't forget to use only the flat of the sword and cut his head off by mistake."

Lucy instantly went very white; not being very handy with a sword (though she had been studying some archery lately), she was afraid of wounding the knight on his first day on the job.

"Rilian, don't scare her!" Caspian snapped, noticing his wife's flustered face, reaching out to box his nearly-grown son's ears. "Don't listen to him, Lucy, dubbing knights is actually one of the easiest parts of being royal."

"I was only joking," laughed Rilian, none the worse for slightly reddened ears.

Lucy smiled at him; finally having learned not to laugh whenever she had to call him-or think of him as-'son'.

"You'll do great, I know you will." said Caspian in a reassuring voice, planting a quick kiss on his little wife's cheek.

The morning she was to knight Edmund, Lucy was watching from one of the tower windows for her brother's arrival. She knew her old Ed could be quite unpredictable and might, for all anyone could expect, show up three minutes before the ceremony started, but Peter-in spite of his disappointing recent letters-was more reliable.

When she spotted his horse galloping into the courtyard, the young queen dashed down the stairs, practically flying out through the arched doorways and garden-paths, right into her elder brother's arms, never minding if she mussed up her pale green velvet dress and gold-thread cloak, or if her crown slipped and went a tad askew.

"Lucy!" bellowed Peter, squeezing her tightly, forgetting for that moment that she was the queen of the whole country, thinking only of how wonderful it was to hold his baby sister again.

"I've missed you so much!" Lucy told him, unable to tear her eyes away from his face.

"You're taller, I think," mused Peter, unsurely.

Lucy nodded. "About an inch-that's what the tailor told me; they make me get new dresses for nearly everything, it's exhausting."

"I think I have a betrothed who wouldn't find it so," he laughed.

"Well then _she_ can stand for four hours having people measure her." Lucy retorted playfully.

"I have a meeting with some of the other knights, but we'll talk more later." Peter promised her, feeling a little sad as he loosed his grip, having to walk away after not seeing her for so long.

"Edmund didn't come with you?" Lucy double checked.

"Well, yes and no," Peter told her, shaking his head and sighing heavily before he took off. "He stopped along the way-I'm sure he'll be here soon."

'Soon' was a relative term. Edmund did arrive shortly thereafter; but only with enough time to dodge anyone who wanted to speak with him-including Lucy-and to go into the chamber set aside for him to change in. He would have preferred to wear a simple dark jerkin over a light doublet, but tradition held to fancier dress. It wasn't uncomfortable, though, to be completely fair; no stiff collars or itchy fabrics, just a dark velvet tunic over new tights and shinny leather shoes that were tight only because he hadn't broken them in yet. If anything, he felt a little too warm-it was a sunny day out, not suited for thick garments.

As he entered the throne room, courtiers applauded and a fat old squirrel let out a cheer, but Edmund's gaze never fell on them, not even for a passing moment; he was staring too intently at the queen. She wore a floor-length velvet dress the colour of a peeled banana with a rounded, flat white-lace collar, long sheer sleeves that broke down into two separate parts, and a flowing scarlet cape. Her long hair was pulled back into a tight braid formed neatly-starting from around her silver crown-that reached the middle of her back, with three small coiled curls loose around her dimpled face. Could this dazzling young lady, this glittering fairy-tale girl, really be Lucy?

Getting closer, almost holding his breath, he started to recognize some of the old familiar features in her face that had been there before, reassured that it was still her. Edmund could see her bright eyes, almost exactly the same as the eyes of the little girl who used to follow him up trees when he was trying to avoid her.

Next he found himself looking at her jewelry. Considering that she was a queen on a formal occasion, there wasn't all that much of it. She wore a glass-bead bracelet on one wrist, her gold wedding-band on her left ring-finger, and a ruby necklace pendant on a chunky silver chain. Because of how the cut of her dress was formed, he could tell she wasn't wearing any other chains: namely, she wasn't wearing the dagger pendant. He knew it was silly, that it was moot, but he couldn't help feeling disappointed.

As she met his gaze with pretend-formalness, Queen Lucy knew exactly what he was thinking and wished they were alone so that she could explain, so that they could just talk like they used to.

While Trumpkin the dwarf read off of an impossibly long scroll the rites of knighthood, Lucy pondered over her options, coming up with a plan. There was one way they could talk after the ceremony was over; if only Edmund would stop being aloof and corporate.

Following the customs, Edmund kneeled before her, kissed her hand, wincing as his lips brushed against the cold, bitter metal of her wedding ring, and lowered his head. Then he muttered off his vows to serve Narnia and its king and queen loyally for all of his days.

Willing herself not to tremble, Lucy touched his head and shoulder with the flat of the blade of a jewel-encrusted sword. When she was lowering it, she found herself almost in line with his ear, and quickly whispered, "Meet me in the apple orchard when this is over."

When she had finished knighting him, making him officially Sir Edmund of the Lantern Waste, King Caspian came up and took her arm, leading her off the dais.

"You see, sweetheart?" he whispered kindly. "You did fine. I told you it would be easy enough. You are a natural at this sort of thing."

"Would it be all right if I went to my chambers for a little while?" Lucy asked when she could get a word in edgewise between her husband's constant praise of her.

"Of course," said Caspian. "I'll send for you when it's time to sup with the knights."

Lucy nodded, anxious to be off. She wondered if Edmund would actually turn up, or if he would ignore her request. Although she was aware in theory that because she was the queen it was his duty to obey her, remembering the boy she'd grown up with made it hard for her to imagine him taking orders from a little runt like her. The first-and only-signs of him ever cowering down in her presence had been that time at the brook when he'd bowed to her; and she had been relieved not to find that same expression in his face during the knighting. For, in truth, she hated that expression-it wasn't the face of the Edmund she knew and cared for, it was the face of a broken-in knight doing his duty. Whenever she forgot herself she always valued their friendship more than their courtly devotion to the king.

Hastily removing her cape and tucking in some of the folds of her dress so that she could walk more easily, Lucy made sure the doors to her chambers were latched and crept over to the wardrobe. She held a small object concealed in her right hand as she pushed the robe-rack aside with her left and slipped into the tunnel. Within two seconds, she dashed back into the room, having forgotten to bring a candlestick to light the dark passageway. A lit candle in hand as well as the other small object, she tried again, and walked along until she came to a large wooden door with a brass handle-at least, best she could make out in the candle's light, it looked like brass.

Pushing it open, Lucy could smell apples and feel a few rays of the nearly-setting sun on her face.

Under a tree, his back to her, was a dark-haired knight in a brown doublet.

The little queen paused for a moment, waiting to be sure it really was him and not someone else out for a stroll where they didn't necessarily belong. But then he turned his head just slightly, showing the profile of the face Lucy would have known anywhere.

"Edmund?"

He turned around all the way and walked over to her.

Before he could say anything, Lucy threw her arms around him, embracing him tightly. "Oh, Edmund!"

Touching her only in the most sparing, gingerly manner, he pushed her away. "Your Majesty," he took a step backwards and bowed.

Lucy felt her chin shaking; she wanted to cry. "Edmund, don't."

"I am a knight in your service, Your Majesty." said Edmund, pointedly.

"You were my friend first," Lucy whispered. Her hopes were shattered; how badly she had wanted to believe he'd come to the orchard because he wanted to see her again! Now it seemed he had come because the queen had ordered him to.

"Those days are over," he reminded her darkly, glancing at her neck without meaning to.

"It broke," Lucy confessed, knowing what he had been looking for.

"What?"

"The chain of the necklace you gave me, it snagged on something a few weeks ago."

Staring into his brown eyes, Lucy opened her right hand and showed him the little dagger pendant. The chain had been beyond repair, but she would have never parted with the dagger-it meant too much to her.

Inside he was aching to forgo all of this 'Your Majesty' rot and to call her by her real name, but he willed himself to calmly say, instead, "I can get it put on a new chain for you."

"I should have thought of doing that myself...I just didn't want..." her face went red and her voice trailed off. She hadn't wanted to give it to a royal jeweler who could have lost it accidentally.

Edmund took the pendant from her trembling fingers, trying not to think about how he felt when they brushed against his own.

"Ed, why didn't you ever answer my letters?" Lucy dared to ask.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty."

"You're just making fun of me now!"

"No," he shook his head.

"Why can't you just call me by my name?" Lucy reached for his sleeve, thinking to tug on it like she would have done to get his attention when she was younger.

Edmund saw her hand and moved away. "Sorry, Queen Lucy."

"I thought...at the brook...you...you weren't going to be like this anymore."

"L-" he caught himself, cursing mildly under his breath. "_Queen_ Lucy, I don't have a choice."

"Peter doesn't talk to me like this," said Lucy.

"He's your brother."

"And I thought you were my friend!"

He swallowed hard. "I'm your subject."

"Edmund, you promised." Lucy whispered, her face becoming twisted with pain.

That cut him to the core. "Oh, please don't cry, we're friends-I swear it-don't be hurt. Do let's make it Pax."

Lucy stared at him through her tears. "All right."

"I have to go now," Edmund told her when her sobs had lessened, "but I'm going to get that pendant on a new chain for you."

It wasn't until he walked away that Lucy realized that, even after he'd begged her forgiveness and sworn they were still friends, he hadn't said her name. At least, not without putting 'queen' in front of it.

Edmund did not turn up for supper with the rest of the knights, and Lucy ended up watching sadly as the servants came and took his empty plate away.

They were not to see each other again until Peter and Susan's wedding.

During the course of the wedding, Lucy couldn't help but feel a little jealous of how beautiful and happy Susan was. Easily the most stunning person in the room, dressed in white silk, her brother's bride was positively beaming. Lucy thought she would never know what it was to be excited about getting married, seeing as all she'd felt through her own wedding was loss and fear. Caspian was always kind to her, but there was something in the fact that Susan and Peter were so close in age that made Lucy yearn for something, something she couldn't fully understand, something missing from her own marriage.

When they were pronounced man and wife, Peter and Susan breathed sighs of relief. Any hopes of being together had sure been a long time in coming, but they had made it in the end.

During the feast afterwards, Lucy felt something brush against her hands before she sat down at the table. Edmund had slipped her a small blue velvet case.

Opening the case under the table, Lucy had to hold back a gasp. Instead of getting the dagger pendant hung back on another simple gold chain, Edmund had re-strung it onto a necklace of the most perfect-looking seed-pearls you could possibly imagine.

When the queen looked over at him, Sir Edmund Philippe lowered his eyes, pretending he hadn't the faintest idea why her gaze was resting on him.

**AN: Please review. It's not hard, just click that fun little button on your way out!**


	10. Love Lies Bleeding

**AN: There is now a trailer for this fanfic on youtube-anyone interested in seeing it can link to it from my profile. **

It was an impossibly dark night. Moonless, it seemed, with precious few stars above the Lantern Waste. Thankfully, the lamppost was as bright as ever, the only warming light in the icy blackness.

Unsurely, as heavily as though her feet were made of stone, Lucy took a step forward. There was something resting under the light of the lantern, against the post-a someone, a person.

When she finally, after much shuffling and exertion, reached the poor soul resting there so wearily, Lucy studied the person to see who they were. It took a moment, since everything except for the small area around the post where the light fell was so dark that looking at it felt like being blind, but the slouching manner and dark hair under the warm yellow glow were familiar to her, so she knew him. It was Edmund.

She started to bend down to his level when she heard herself gasp. For a moment it was dark, then light again, then dark. The lamppost, the strongest light in the world, was flickering rapidly. And not just a little flicker like the once she swore she had seen when she left the western woods as a king's bride, either; a real, extinguishing flicker.

In the dark something from behind grabbed her arm and shook her. "Mother! Wake up!"

Lucy's eyes shot open. She wasn't in the Lantern Waste under a flickering lamppost; she was in her bed at Cair Paravel, where she was queen. It had only been a dream.

Above her was the worried face of her stepson, Rilian, his golden hair mussed up and his shift hanging in an untidy manner as if he had just flung it over himself haphazardly before racing into her chambers.

"What's happening?" Lucy murmured, blinking up at him.

"Cair Paravel's under attack!" cried Rilian, pulling her out of the bed and over towards the wardrobe. "Father asked me to make sure you hide in the tunnel in case something goes wrong and the enemy soldiers manage to break into the castle."

"Let me get my bow and arrows," suggested Lucy. Although she was feeling rather afraid, she was none too keen on hiding while everyone else-her stepson included-fought off whomever was attacking their home. Weren't queens supposed to defend their country?

"No!" said Rilian, half-dragging her into the now-open wardrobe by this point. "You're too young, Mother; and you've only just started learning archery."

"But-" she started to protest as he-firmly but not roughly-pushed her into the tunnel, forcing a small copper candleholder with the teeniest burning candle she had ever seen into her hands.

"Narnia cannot stand to lose another queen," Rilian whispered gravely.

"I-" she tried.

"Neither can Father."

Defeated for the time being, Lucy took a step back, swallowed grimly, and allowed her stepson to replace the rack with her still in the tunnel. Alone and frightened, her hands shook-causing a few drops of hot tallow to drop down from the candle and onto the floor, narrowly missing her bare feet.

Distantly, she could hear Rilian draw his sword and run out of her chambers, ready to fight. The battle itself must have been going on in a different part of the vast castle, for as soon as the prince was gone, Lucy heard no more of it.

Ever so slowly, the seconds became minutes and the minutes turned to hours. Queen Lucy was too tired to stand up for more than an hour, so after a while she simply found a cool, reasonably comfortable space within the gaping hole and laid down on her belly, staring into the ever-shrinking candle.

The candle was nearly gone now, little more than a useless chunk of hard-wax in a deep melted puddle, holding up the remains of a dying flame. Clearly, it was about to go out.

"Please don't go out," whispered Lucy to the candle, in a trembling, hoarse voice. "Please..." The last thing she wanted was to be in the dark on such a long night, never even knowing if her husband and stepson, or anyone else at Cair, were safe-or if they were lying dead somewhere within those endless stone passageways.

A few tears slid down her face. Hastily, without a second to lose, she put her hand over the candle to block the teardrops from turning it into a tiny ring of curling smoke.

"Lucy," said a rich, golden voice.

Wiping her damp eyelashes, Lucy looked around for the source of that wonderful voice. "Aslan?" Was it really the great Lion of Narnia? Was he there with her in the tunnel?

A beautiful blur of gold and orange was ahead of her in the tunnel, a showering bright red thing all around it that might have been a mane. It was so real that she knew she wasn't dreaming; for it was entirety different from the lamppost nightmare she'd had earlier. Yet, she couldn't see him too well since her eyes were blinded by tears and there were purple blobs swimming in front of them, dizzy from the sudden light.

"Lucy, dear heart, you're tired," said the voice, "sleep a while."

She shook her head, more tears streaming down her face. "I can't, there's a raid...and my candle-"

"Shh...sleep..." a warm Lion-breath fell upon her face, warming it and relaxing her muscles. "...Courage, dear one."

Still hovering in the air as she yawned and lowered her head, the magical breath touched the flame and made it burn brighter than ever. Through half-closed eyelids, Lucy tried to see Him, but she saw, much to her surprise, a lovely snowy-white albatross with glowing amber eyes and a golden beak. Then, a little smile spreading across her now-dreamy face, she began to sleep soundly-a deep slumber with no dreams.

A couple of hours after dawn, Lucy heard a sigh and felt herself being lifted up and carried. Opening her eyes, she saw that it was Caspian, having found her in the tunnel, returning her back to her chambers now that it was safe. Behind him, Rilian was picking up the dried-wax-filled candleholder that had been at her side all through the night.

When they saw she was awake, they began to talk to her, telling her that everything was well again.

"But who attacked us?" Lucy wanted to know, gazing in a puzzled manner at her husband and stepson, wide-eyed as the king set her down in a cushioned chair by the unlit fireplace.

"An army from a small island off the cost," Rilian told her. "They aren't dreadfully important, or bright for that matter, mostly pirates-all those swords and gleaming silver shields they had on them were stolen as likely as not. But you needn't worry, Mother, Father and his knights gave them such a marvelous licking! I don't suppose they'll be returning any time soon. Wicked things!"

"Was it," asked Lucy uncertainly, "one of the Lone Islands?"

Caspian shook his head. "Surely you remember the Lone Island are loyal to us. They wouldn't be stupid enough to revolt by a night-attack, not with what they owe us. Think smaller, less wealth, more stubborn, half-drunken louts with too much time on their hands."

"Everyone's all right?" Lucy double-checked as a dryad serving-maid walked in and handed the queen a silver mug of piping-hot tea.

"As far as we've been able to determine, yes," explained Caspian.

"We're having everybody counted to be sure, but there doesn't seem to be any cause for worry as of yet." Rilian put in.

Seeing how pale and grave his little wife still looked, Caspian gently moved a lock of her hair over one shoulder and said, "If you are worried about your brother, sweetheart, you needn't be. He was fighting at my left side-Rilian at my right-for most of the raid. I can assure you that Sir Peter Wolf's Bane is uninjured."

"You've seen him this morning?" said Lucy, just to be sure.

He nodded. "Less than twenty minutes before I came to see you."

She breathed a sigh of relief and took a long, satisfying gulp of her tea. What she wanted, also, was to ask about Sir Edmund, but before she had a chance, Rilian and Caspian both had a meeting with their exhausted army to attend to, and left her for the time being.

Later, in the late morning, as Queen Lucy wandered the corridors near the areas of the castle she knew the best, trying to find out details about the night before from passing servants and courtiers, she saw Caspian and a few anxious-looking fauns hurrying along, running towards one of the west towers.

Spying Trumpkin standing close by, watching the whole thing, Lucy asked him what was happening.

"Oh, they found a boy badly injured in north-west tower." said Trumpkin, in a deep, mournful tone.

"What was he doing there?" asked Lucy.

"Best they can figure," Trumpkin shook his head; "is that the lad was fighting in the raid last night-probably on one of the narrow balconies that hang over the courtyard-and was stabbed in the stomach with a sharp object."

"But," Lucy's brow crinkled, her face clouded with confusion, "how did he get into the tower, then?"

"The knights can only assume the door was open and he flung himself into it, kicking it closed behind him."

"Clever of him," Lucy couldn't help mulling with deep admiration. If out of fear the boy had simply thrown himself to the ground and done nothing else, whoever wounded him would have simply finished him off.

"Very," agreed Trumpkin.

"Will he be all right, do you think?" said Lucy quietly, wondering how old the poor dear was-no one seemed to know.

The dwarf shrugged his shoulders.

"That poor boy," whispered the little queen to herself as she walked away. "Aslan bless him."

Lucy was still wondering about the boy, hoping that Caspian, Rilian, and the royal physicians would be able to help him, that afternoon as she watered the plants in her chambers.

Shortly after Caspian had given her permission to adjust the chambers to her liking, Lucy had seen the talking moles that tended to the gardens carrying around a few pots of pretty red-and-pink drooping flowers, and requested some for herself. The colourful plants made the fact that the rest of the chambers remained blue a little easier to bear up with. She even thought it made the blue shades seem more likeable, since they were a sharp enough contrast to them. Most of all, though, Lucy simply liked them because they were something to care for and look after, something that was hers; she had complete control over their fates, and-after all she'd been through-she rather liked knowing that.

"Love lies bleeding," said Rilian, sliding in through the slightly ajar left door.

"What?" said Lucy, turning her head to stare at him with her nose wrinkled, but still making sure to keep holding up the watering can until the plant was all set.

"The _flowers_," Rilian gestured down at the gold-rimmed porcelain pots.

"What about them?"

"That's what they're called: Love lies bleeding."

Touching three petals tenderly with her pinky finger, Lucy shook her head. "The moles told me they were called amaranth."

"That's another name for it." he explained.

"Oh." said Lucy, lowering the watering can now and placing it down on the floor by the window.

"You're keeping them up nicely." said Rilian kindly.

"Thank you, son. If you don't mind my asking, how is the boy they found in the tower?"

Rilian's expression changed dramatically. "Not well, Mother, his wound may be fatal."

At the word 'fatal', something inside of Lucy snapped, and she rushed over to the spot under her mattress where she'd recently taken to hiding the diamond flask of magic cordial her husband had given her.

Seeing the little bottle twinkling in her hands, Rilian understood what she wanted to do and shook his head. "You mustn't; it's only for emergencies."

"But this _is_ an emergency," she protested desperately, feeling strangely panicked though she wasn't sure why. "You yourself just said it could be fatal."

"Mother, may the Lion bless your loving heart," said Rilian; "but if we gave a drop to every knight that ever rested on death's door-"

"Knight?" gasped Lucy, taking a step back, clutching the flask with both hands now. "What knight?"

"Oh, didn't they tell you? The boy isn't so young as they took him for at first, and he's one of our knights."

"How do you mean?"

"Just what I said; he's a knight of Narnia-his sister's identified him and everything."

Feeling the blood drain from her face, her heart pounding like a drum, Lucy asked, "What is the knight's name?"

Rilian thought hard for a moment, trying to remember. "The new one, Mother, Edmund something...oh, that's right, Sir Edmund Philippe. I say, he comes from your village, doesn't he? Didn't you know him?"

The floor under her feet shook, the room spun; a weaker-natured young woman would have thrown-up or fainted; indeed, Lucy almost felt like doing so herself, but she couldn't stand still long enough to go about it. Long before her tear-stained vision cleared, long before the walls of the chamber stopped going round and round, she was at the double doors, running out into the corridor.

"Mother!" cried Rilian, breathlessly, as he chased after her. "Where are you going?"

"To the tower to see Edmund!"

Quick as lightning he reached out and grabbed her arm. "He's not there anymore, they've surely taken him away by now."

"Oh, Aslan," sobbed Lucy, nearly losing it completely. "Where is he?"

"There's nothing for you to do, come back to your chambers and rest for a bit-you've had a shock." With this, Rilian tightened his grip on her arm and tried to pull her back down the corridor.

"Let me go!" screamed Lucy, shaking her arm free.

"Mother, calm down, you're not thinking right-" The prince jumped in front of her, blocking her way.

"Rilian, I'm not crazy, get out of my way!" Lucy shouted in a tone he had never heard her use before; a tone he hadn't known she was even capable of using.

Most likely he would not have moved and, being bigger and stronger than his stepmother was, would have over-powered her and forced her to go back, convinced she was not in her senses. Thankfully, however, her shouting was heard by a knight coming down that way; and that knight happened to be none other than her own brother, Sir Peter.

"Move aside, Your Highness." At times Peter could have a very commanding voice that made a person think twice before disobeying him, even if that person was the prince of Narnia. This was one of those times.

"Sir Peter-" he began to protest, his voice wavering.

"Trust me," he said curtly, not because he was trying to be harsh in his manner of speaking to the prince, rather because he understood his sister's desperation; "she needs to see him."

Blinded by another round of tears falling so endlessly that the collar of her dress was starting to feel a bit damp, Lucy allowed Peter to take her hand, move her around Rilian, and lead her down long corridor after long corridor until they came to the room where Edmund had been laid out.

As soon as she saw him, Lucy felt like she was scarcely able to breathe. Edmund looked absolutely dreadful. His face was a nasty green colour, his eyes were glazed and half-closed, and there was a graciously-sized blood stain seeping through the bandages wrapped around his bare middle. The doublet and shift he had been wearing were tossed onto a chair on the far right side of the room under the little red brick-lined window, and they were all covered in dark, caked-on, dried blood.

His lips trembled as though he was trying very hard to say something.

Susan, who had been standing next to the chair, grabbed a small skin-bottle and poured a few drops of water into his mouth, mistaking his muttering for thirst.

Edmund immediately began to choke and wheeze, causing the flustered, blood-shot eyed faun physician to lift him up half-way and slap his back until he spat up the water.

"Sorry, Ed." croaked Susan, hoarsely, looking ghostly pale.

"Edmund!" cried Lucy from the doorway, running to him.

His head turned and the corners of his mouth curled up ever so slightly as he recognized her.

The genuine warmth in his eyes made Lucy want to throw her arms around his neck and hold on tightly and never let go. Needless to say, she did not notice her own husband standing close-by the physician.

The little queen's hands shook as she removed the gleaming dark-gold stopper from the diamond flask, leaned over the bed, and ever so speedily let a single drop of the cordial fall into her childhood companion's open mouth.

Instantly, Edmund felt his stomach wound beginning to heal and his thoughts became less muddled, his sight clearer as well.

But before Lucy could see what effects the cordial would have on him-if it would save him-Caspian cleared his throat in an almost-stern manner and said, "Lucy, come into the corridor, I will have a talk with you."

Forgetting that the man speaking to her was both her husband and the king of Narnia, Lucy snapped, "Yes, that's fine, wait a minute!" in a very cross-sounding voice, peering down hopefully at Edmund's face.

"_Now_, Lucy." King Caspian's tone didn't waver, but his pitch was lowering itself bit by bit.

Sighing, Lucy followed him out of the room.

"Lucy," he groaned, rubbing his temples, "what did I tell you about the cordial?"

"I had to help him," she whispered, looking up into her husband's eyes pleadingly.

"He was a friend of hers from back home," said a voice from the side. It was Peter, having followed them out, leaving Susan behind with Edmund, sticking his oar in once again. "Your Majesty would never leave Lord Drinian hanging out to dry."

Lord Drinian was one of King Caspian's closest friends.

As the king let out a sigh, Lucy noticed that he hadn't actually been all that angry to begin with, and that just then he had been won-over completely.

Reaching out, Caspian patted his little wife on the cheek and said, "I suppose we can let it go just this once, then, can't we?"

Lucy smiled and curtsied, taking in the traces of a wink twitching in the corner of his left eye.

When she and Peter entered the room again, Susan was smiling, clinging to Edmund's hand as if he were a small child in her care, and Edmund himself was looking very well. The knight's face was its normal colour again, his eyes were bright and focused and opened all the way, and the bandages had been removed from his middle because there was no wound there for them to cover up anymore.

Delighted, Lucy rushed to his side and, in a low voice so that no one else could hear, he asked her if she could get out into the apple orchard again as she had done that one time before.

Glancing both ways, certain that not even Peter was aware of what Edmund had just said, she nodded yes.

**AN: Yes, if anyone is wondering, "Love lies bleeding" is a real flower-I didn't make that up. Look it up on google images if you don't believe me. **

**Please review!**


	11. Of Sailing Ships and Kings

True to her word, as always, Lucy arrived in the apple orchard to speak with Edmund. Somehow she knew-and was delighted-that he didn't have anything terribly important to tell her besides thanking her for saving his life in private. He still called her 'Your Majesty'-with only occasional switches to 'Queen Lucy'-which was annoying, but his tone wasn't so distant and unfamiliar now, so that she truly could believe that in spite of the change of relationship between them, they were still friends. Edmund had not betrayed her, nor broken his promise; her friend had kept his word just as she kept hers.

Because it was so easy to get out through the wardrobe-tunnel without being seen, they began to meet up in the orchard more and more frequently. Knowing the secret would be more than safe with Edmund of all people, Lucy showed him the way in and out of the tunnel extending from her wardrobe to the wall around the trees so that he wouldn't have to wonder how she got out. In turn, feeling maybe just the slightest bit bolder after learning of this, Edmund started slipping notes to her during formal suppers and balls-much the same way he'd slipped the dagger necklace back to her after changing the chain-letting the queen know what times he would be able to get out to see her, and when to expect him waiting for her among the apple trees.

Lucy always looked forward to those times. They'd walk around quietly and talk about different things in such a manner that-if Edmund would have only started calling her by her name again without putting a title in front of it-would have felt very much like their old times by the brook and the lamppost. It was easier to endure knowing everything had changed when they had those moments to look forward to. Once they even climbed one of the apple-trees together and, laughingly, forgetting for the first time in months to address her as royalty, Edmund asked if she remembered those days when he was being a beastly little turd, trying to avoid her, and she'd followed him up to the highest branches of trees.

"I hadn't thought girls _liked _to climb trees," he smiled at her. "You proved me wrong."

Lucy leaned back on the wide, thick branch she was resting on and said, "I remember that you said you were going to run away to Ettinsmoor-then you said you were sailing east-and I believed you."

"Worse, you wanted to _come_," Edmund chuckled, shaking his head as he plucked an apple, cleaned it on his sleeve, and tossed it to her.

She caught the fruit just before it plummeted to the grassy ground, narrowly escaping falling from her out-stretched fingertips. "Edmund, do you ever wonder what would have happened if we actually had gone on an adventure like that somewhere? Just the two of us, not telling anyone?"

"Don't be silly, Lucy." said Edmund stiffly. "You know you wouldn't have gone anywhere without telling Peter first."

"You just said my name again," she pointed out.

"Don't behead me for it," muttered Edmund, sarcastically.

"But you didn't answer the question."

"It's one of those things you shouldn't ask." Edmund told her, his jaw-line looking very tight.

"It's a very simple question," said Lucy, looking over at him expectedly.

"No," said Edmund; "it's a trick-question. You don't mean it that way, but it is."

"How is it a trick question?"

"If I say yes, that I've wondered about that every day since King Caspian married you and took you away from the Lantern Waste, then you might rightly assume I still think about that-and other things, too, things a knight isn't supposed to think about the queen he serves-and I'd be bordering on treason. But if I say no, then you would think I don't care about you-that I've never seen you as more than a tag-along kid."

"I'm the only one here," Lucy pointed out sort of quietly, even though, innocent-minded as she was, she vaguely understood his point.

"Friendship has its limits," Edmund told her with a sigh. "Friendship with a queen even more so."

"I didn't want to be queen, you know."

"I know," he assured her. "But I also know you don't hate it now that you are...you're a good queen, it's okay to admit you're happy about it."

Lucy lowered her eyes. "It almost feels like betraying you."

"It's because you love him, isn't it?" he said after a pause.

"He's so kind to me, Ed." she murmured, fidgeting with a crease in the petticoat of her scrunched-up dress.

"King or no king, I'd kill him if he wasn't." Edmund mumbled, forgetting himself.

"Isn't that treason, too?" asked Lucy, feeling confused.

"Of a sort, I guess."

"Then why can you say that and not...other things?"

"It's different," said Edmund softly. "I don't know how-it just is."

Lucy reached up and touched one of the seed-pearls on her dagger-necklace pensively with her free hand, the other still holding the apple.

Meanwhile, Caspian sent for Sir Peter to come and talk with him in the throne room.

As soon as the tall, blonde knight arrived, Caspian sent the other courtiers and knights present away, saying he wanted to talk with his brother-in-law alone.

"You sent for me, Your Majesty?" said Peter, bowing respectfully.

"Yes, I...er...wanted to ask you your opinion on something." said the king, looking a little embarrassed.

"Certainly, Sire, what do you wish to know?" Peter replied, wondering what all this was about.

"Well, I'm sure you're aware that my first wedding anniversary is coming up, and I was hoping to give Lucy something really nice, and I was thinking...a boat?"

It took all of Peter's will-power not to laugh out loud from surprise. "A boat, your Majesty?"

"Well, it is technically a ship, but it's on the small-side...it is a pretty little thing, though-the boat-makers called it the 'Dawn Treader'." Caspian explained, his face a little redder than usual. "Do you think she'll like it? I mean, I know most women care more for jewels and clothes and what not; but Lucy...well, she's-"

"Not like most women?" Peter finished for him.

Caspian sighed heavily. "Exactly."

"I don't think you have to worry," said Peter, reassuringly. "Lucy is pretty easy to please."

"I'd noticed that," agreed Caspian; "but I want her to be happy-not just say she is."

"I don't think she wants anything else." Peter half-lied. Actually, he could think of one thing he was pretty sure Lucy, while she was happy enough in her new life for the most part, secretly still wanted; but he didn't dare betray her by mentioning it to the king. Because, really, it wasn't something as much as some_one_. And that someone was a certain knight who had once been his squire; she could never be with him.

Caspian glanced over his shoulder at the two thrones on the dais behind him. "You know, I never thought I would truly accept another after I lost my first queen."

"I beg your pardon, Sire?" said Peter, blinking uncomprehendingly.

"Oh, in name, yes, it was my duty to be hospitable to whoever my advisors chose for me. It was also my duty to keep my word to your parents; even when I saw how young she was. But I feel different now; almost like I cannot believe there wasn't always a little Queen Lucy living here at Cair Paravel. She just...I don't know...sort of belongs in her own rights and ways."

Stunned, Peter whispered, "King Caspian, you...you really love her, don't you?"

"It's complicated," said the king, his tone a little weary. "I don't feel quite the same about her as I did my first wife, not that burning passion, and she's so much younger than I am; but, Peter, I do believe I've learned to love her anyway."

Shifting uncomfortably, Peter murmured-trying to speak clearly, yet failing from the sheer awkwardness of the conversation, "You love her as a man loves a good child?"

"No," Caspian couldn't look his knight in the face as he spoke, "I love her as a man loves a good wife."

"I see..."

Caspian looked up and noticed his knight's face. "I've made you uncomfortable, I'm sorry."

Peter shook his head. "No, Your Majesty, it isn't your fault."

"That's right," said Caspian, having forgotten; "you're already married, you know about all that stuff."

That was true enough; but it was hard for Peter to think of his little sister as a married woman-even though she had been one for almost a year.

The night of the king and queen's first wedding anniversary arrived. It was rather a big deal, actually, there were fireworks and a grand feast and presents, and just when the stars were shinning at their brightest, King Caspian prepared to show Lucy the ship he had brought for her.

"Close your eyes, Lucy, we will make sure you don't bump into anything on the way outside." Caspian told her, leading her by one arm while Rilian led her by another. "Keep them closed until we tell you it's all right to open them."

"Don't peep through your eyelashes, Mother." Rilian teased. "I can see that!"

"Okay, step down," said Caspian, when they came to a small flight of stairs.

When they had helped her towards the eastern sea and onto the deck of the docked Dawn Treader, they told her she could open her eyes.

Lucy was amazed to find herself on board a beautiful purple-and-green sailing ship; small and petite, yet still strong-looking, with a beautiful dragon's head at the prow, a gleaming tail at the stern.

"What do you think?" Caspian asked, eager for her reaction.

"It's..." stammered Lucy, gazing about her, utterly dazzled and amazed. "...It's lovely...I don't know what to say..."

"Some day soon we'll have to take you sailing in it, wont we, Mother?"

"I..." Lucy was still rendered almost completely speechless.

"You do like it, don't you?" Caspian wanted to be sure.

"I love it," Lucy finally managed, still in shock.

When everyone else, seeing that the surprise was over, set off talking and laughing and making merry again, Caspian gently gripped his little wife's arm and led her into the Dawn Treader's grandest cabin. There was something he wanted to tell her, and it seemed only right to say such a thing on a night as important as that one was, but he didn't wish to do so with a bunch of harmless-yet-overtly-nosy courtiers hanging on his every word. He didn't want to put undue pressure on her to give a reply before she was ready. The king had learned enough in his lifetime to know that true love-the real kind-ought never to be rushed.

"I can't believe you brought me a ship." giggled Lucy.

"I almost brought you a galleon-but, I don't know, this boat just felt more like something...something you would care about owning." he confessed.

"I'm sorry I didn't get anything for you," said Lucy, smiling with a slightly guilty look about her. It wasn't that she had forgotten, or that she didn't care for him enough, it was simply that she realized all the monies from the royal treasuries were his anyway. She had considered cutting some of the Love lies bleeding flowers off of the amaranth plant as a present for the king, but those flowers made her think too much of Edmund (maybe for their namesake), and she didn't feel right giving them to her husband.

"I'm king, Lucy, I don't need anything."

While she was glad that he was so understanding, Lucy couldn't help wondering why he was staring at her so intently, making what on anyone else besides the king of Narnia would have been classified as 'sheep eyes' at her.

"Lucy," he said softly, reaching for one of her hands. "I love you."

Startled beyond all reason, far more stunned than she had been by the Dawn Treader in all its glory, she almost pulled her hand away. Had he just said...?

"I know that this whole marriage thing was your parents idea," said Caspian, stroking the top of her hand in an attempt to reassure her that they were just talking and she didn't have to feel afraid or embarrassed-she only had to listen; "and I know I am a lot older than you are, but you're growing up-and into a truly remarkable young woman at that. I just want you to know that, while our relationship was arranged as a political matter, my affections are not engaged elsewhere. I really do love you, Lucy."

She stared at him, wide-eyed, as though stricken dumb-her cheeks dark pink.

"It is all right, sweetheart, you don't have to say anything just now." And with that, he let go of her hand, turning to leave the cabin.

Before he left, however, he kissed her once very lightly, on the lips like a lover. Even though they had been married for a year, he had never kissed her there until that moment, in fact, no one ever had. Lucy had gotten, during the course of their short marriage, many a brotherly sort of kiss on the forehead or the cheek-same as Peter or her father might have kissed her when she did something that pleased them. But this was the first time Caspian had expressed any romantic interest in her; and she wasn't sure how she felt about it. She knew without shadow of doubt that she had some love for him, and young as she was, the little queen was not wholly indifferent to the notion of romance, but whether she fully welcomed this sort of attention from her husband left her feeling uncertain.

The next morning at the castle, Edmund's half-Calormene stepmother, having come to court for a visit, was worked up and emotional over the fact that, when she'd mentioned to Edmund that she wished to get him married off now that his sister had been happily wedded to Sir Peter for some time, he'd told her-directly to her face so there could be no misunderstandings-that he had decided never to marry.

"But Eddie-" his stepmother bawled piteously, her hennaed palms stretched out to him in protest. "-how _can_ you? Don't you want a wife?"

"I _did_-" he retorted coldly; "-but you never asked me about it then, did you?"

"Darling, you cannot live a full life without a woman to look after you." she protested, choosing to ignore his biting comment.

"Oh, believe me, I can."

As they were speaking, Caspian came walking by. He was whistling, clearly in a pleasant mood; so Edmund's stepmother risked dragging him into the debate she'd started.

"Your Majesty, I've heard some depressing news."

"Eh?" said King Caspian a little absently. "What news?"

"My stepson tells me he wishes to never marry," she all but wailed, in a passionate tone.

"Why not, Sir Edmund?" Caspian asked curiously. "A wife is a blessing."

Easy for _you_ to say, Edmund thought sullenly. Out loud he replied, "That depends on the woman, Sire."

"He speaks the truth." said the king, shrugging at the stepmother.

"But we would find you a lovely girl, Edmund, a splendid Tarkheena."

"That's all the more reason _not_ to marry." muttered Edmund to his feet.

"All right, darling, if you so insist upon it, we'll find you a Narnian bride-or an Archenlander-I promise." said his stepmother, smiling warmly as though her saying this was generous and would fix everything.

"I don't care what race the woman is!" exclaimed Edmund, rolling his eyes and folding his arms across his chest. "I'm not marrying anyone-I refuse."

"Love comes in the most surprising of places, Sir Edmund, while you are making your resolutions, you might bear that in mind." Caspian told him.

As cruel, heartless fate would have it, Queen Lucy herself came walking passed the very corridor they were all talking in, humming lightly, not noticing them until Caspian called out, "Lucy, come here for a moment, wont you?"

Watching as she came closer, Edmund tried not to moan from pure longing and grief; Lucy looked so beautiful. She wore a dark emerald-green dress embroidered with tiny pink roses and slim lines of paler-green ivy; her long hair in a neat side-braid. On her neck she wore, he noticed, the necklace of seed-pearls with the dagger pendant.

"Edmund's stepmother and I have been trying to explain to him the meaning of marriage and love-it seems he disagrees with us." Caspian filled his wife in.

"Really?" Lucy blinked innocently at Edmund, turning to face him.

"Yes," said Edmund stiffly. "I don't want to marry."

In truth, Lucy didn't want him to marry either, not very fond of the notion of another girl taking whatever place in his heart might have been hers if things were different, but she did want him to be happy. And if there was any way that a marriage could make Edmund happy again, Lucy was willing to put up with discomfort for his sake, so long as she knew he was in love with the maiden he married.

"It isn't so awful as you think," she said quietly.

Caspian laughed at this, wrapping his arms around Lucy from behind, pulling her close to him. "It isn't awful?"

"I what I _meant_ was-" she laughed, realizing how that must have sounded.

Edmund thought he was going to be sick watching Caspian's arms wrapping so lovingly around Lucy. _Queen_ Lucy, he reminded himself-to no avail. Although pleased for any happiness that sweet, deserving Lucy might have found with the king, he could not fully shake off his mounting jealousy.

"You might still find joy in a good woman, Sir Edmund." Caspian told him, pressing his cheek against Lucy's.

"There's only one I want." Edmund confessed, trying to keep his face from twisting in pain.

The half-Calormene stepmother pounced. "Who is she? I'll see about-"

"I lost her," said Edmund, glancing over at Lucy in her husband's arms. "Happy belated anniversary, Your Majesties."

With that he bowed respectfully, his face void of any overt expression, and walked away.

"Poor fellow!" said Caspian, unawares. "I wonder who the lady he fancied so was. She must have broken his heart to leave him in such a state."

Holding back tears and forcing a smile to stay on her face, Lucy reached up passed the king's arms and touched the dagger pendant hanging from her neck. "I think she broke _her_ heart, too."

**AN: Please review.**


	12. An Eclipse

While there are a great many things that can be said about Edmund Philippe, that he only kept his promise to Lucy when it was easy to do so is not one of them. The closer she and the king became, the more he felt inclined to distance himself from her. But he would not; he remembered his promise-and his word that they were still friends-and he held on. He even continued meeting her in the apple orchard whenever she wanted to see him, though it must be admitted that he no longer passed the first note-always waiting for her to make the first attempt at contact before responding in as friendly a manner as ever.

Things went on quietly for a few weeks until the day Edmund informed Lucy that King Caspian's tutor had told him there was going to be a full lunar eclipse the night after the next.

They were walking amongst the apple trees on a late, sleepy sort of afternoon where everything is warm and the world just gets sort of quiet. Lucy, never having seen an eclipse, was naturally curious about it and eagerly listened while Edmund told her all he knew regarding the matter.

"Have you ever seen one, Ed?" asked Lucy, when he was finished explaining.

"No," Edmund admitted. "But my father did once, when he was two years older than I am now."

"Do you think Doctor Cornelius will arrange for the whole court to have a night-picnic outside so we can all see it?" wondered Lucy, speaking aloud.

"He didn't mention it, Lu." answered Edmund with a shrug of his shoulders. "I don't think everyone in the court would _want_ to be out on a nippy night to watch the moon turn black. I mean, do you really think your ladies-in-waiting would put-up with having to sit out in a wood somewhere after hours?"

"Can't we all watch it from the courtyard?"

"I wouldn't think so," he replied. "The view would be a bit rummy-what with the way the towers are facing."

"And I suppose we can't fit everyone on the balcony?" sighed Lucy, looking rather disappointed.

"I should say not," Edmund had to agree.

They said nothing more for a few moments, but Edmund could tell Lucy really wanted to see the eclipse, even after the night-picnic was ruled out. It was at the tip of his tongue to suggest that she ask Caspian to take her to a hill somewhere nearby-a sort of royal husband and wife camping trip-to watch it, when, instead, he found himself suggesting that the two of _them _meet up in the apple orchard the night of the eclipse and then go to a hill together.

"All right," said Lucy, more than glad to get her own way and to spend more time with Edmund. "I can be here at-"

Suddenly he shook his head. "Maybe that's not such a great idea-it was foolish of me to suggest it."

"Why?" she asked, clearly not seeing the problem. "We haven't done anything just the two of us-besides talking in this orchard-for a long time."

There's a reason for that, Edmund thought to himself. Out loud, he said, "Think about it...what would the castle-folk say if they knew their queen was going out in the middle of the night to spend time with one of her knights?"

"It's not like that with us, Ed."

"How would they know that?"

"Peter knows-I'm sure Caspian would understand, too."

Edmund knew, long before their conversation was over, that he was going to give in, but he still felt it important to add, "Supposing we really were seen, though?"

"The tunnel, from the wardrobe." Lucy reminded him. "Only four people know about it, and we're two of them."

He saw what she was getting at. "Then, once you were out here, we could just walk out the little water-gate on the north-east wall?"

"And we shan't be away too long," added Lucy, completely innocent of any notion of complications that might arise-she was young still.

Because he was older, Edmund really ought to have known better, but he could be impulsive at times-in spite of his quiet and grave nature-and this was one of those times.

Besides, it was completely harmless, really, wasn't it? There was no real treason in escorting a queen on an outing when she so insisted upon it, was there? How could there be? Surely, if Peter were to do such a thing, who would have cared? Of course, Edmund was well-aware of the difference between his relationship with Lucy, and Peter's, but the argument still made some sense in his head at the time. In truth, he missed the freedom of unsupervised time he and Lucy had once had. How could it be wrong to enjoy the lost freedom, the sort of freedom that millions of friends throughout Narnia probably had by the bucket-load on a daily basis, for just one night? It was only one passing lunar eclipse and then it would be over-everything would just go back to the way it had seemingly always been at court. Part of him still felt guilty, though he couldn't fully explain-even to himself-why that was so, but he ignored it.

The night of the eclipse fell clear, starry, and comfortably cool. Lucy needed little more than a simple gown of red-and-orange brocade and an olive-green wool cape with a silver clasp to hold it in place. Once she was properly dressed, the young queen took a small oil-lantern, lit it, and-making sure all the doors to her chambers were closed up and latched-pushed back the rack, stepping into the tunnel.

When she reached the orchard, she nearly found her heart about to burst with joy. For there he was, Sir Edmund Philippe, holding an oil-lantern of his own by a slightly creaky handle, smiling when he caught sight of her.

Perhaps he couldn't help smiling, since she did look rather sweet. Her cheeks were flushed from excitement, both of the fun of sneaking out late at night-which even the most harmless of children have felt and enjoyed from time to time-and of knowing she would see her first eclipse; and the moonlight made the seed-pearls on her dagger-necklace glow prettily-twinkling like little beads of milk-cream from where the side of the cape didn't cover them.

There was something unexpected that made them both feel a little breathless and shy of each other as they met up and walked side-by-side towards the water-gate, stealing glances every few seconds.

The hill Edmund had chosen was only a little ways inward from the wood near the beach-close enough so that they didn't have to borrow any horses from the stable and ride out in order to get there in time. As they walked, very few words were exchanged between them. Lucy felt a little stunned, never having been particularly speechless around Edmund like this before, save maybe for the rare occasions when she was angry with him. But she wasn't at all angry with him right then; it was a completely different sort of frustration that ran up and down her spine and made her want to say both something and nothing at the same time, tying up her tongue so tightly.

How funny it is, Lucy couldn't help pondering, that before Edmund would be my friend-when we were younger and he wanted to avoid me-I couldn't will myself to stop talking to him, and now-now, I don't know how it is-but I can't seem to make myself _start_.

When they reached the hill and climbed to the top, Lucy found that Edmund had already spread out a blanket for them to sit on, and she noticed the vague shape of a food-hamper; it was behind the only tree. Actually, it was two separate trees; but their roots had been so close that as they'd grown up together, their trunks and branches had become hopelessly intertwined so that they looked like only one.

There was an old story about a wicked creature (some variations said it was a hideous-looking ape named Shift, while others claimed it was Tash, the bird-god of Calormen) trying to cut down, not those exact intertwined trees, but trees that looked-as imagined by Lucy when she heard the story as a toddler-rather like them. In the old nursery tale, the trees always healed and grew back together, their bond stronger than ever. She had never given that story much serious thought, yet right then, gazing at the trees before her, Lucy couldn't stop thinking about it.

I'm glad the trees were always together, Lucy mused inwardly, but supposing they weren't _supposed_ to be? Not really. Supposing it wasn't a wicked, cruel, ugly monster that tore them apart? What if it was a kindly woodsman; and he needed firewood and didn't mean any real harm? Or what if it was a nobleman who promised someone-maybe the people who owned the land the trees grew up on-that he would take one of them away to live and grow greater still in his own garden, and then he really loved it-except, only, the tree couldn't keep away from its match?

The story took on new depths when there wasn't a villain, when there were only good people-good people who might get hurt-depths so vast and confusing that they sort of frightened her.

"Are you all right?" Edmund asked, noticing that Lucy's face had gone a little pale.

Rubbing lightly at a row of goosebumps on her shoulders and pulling the cloak tighter around herself, Lucy said, "I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

She nodded and took a seat on the blanket. He sat down next to her. For a little while longer, they remained dead-silent.

Then Edmund said, "The eclipse should start in about twenty minutes or so."

"Hmm," said Lucy, a little absent-minded; still, for reasons she couldn't comprehend, thinking a bit about those trees.

"Do you want anything to eat?" Edmund gestured at the hamper.

Snapping herself out of it, Lucy glanced over curiously. "What do we have?"

Grunting lightly, he lifted the hamper and dragged it over to their blanket. "Nothing too fancy. Just some ham sandwiches, a bottle of ginger-beer, and a bunch of cookies and biscuits I pilfered from the royal pantry a couple nights ago when I couldn't fall asleep."

"So you're the one who's been raiding the kitchen's leftovers." Lucy grinned at him.

"Hey, in my defense, Peter helped-a lot." Edmund chuckled, smirking mischievously. He reached into the hamper, pulled out a sandwich wrapped in tinfoil, and tossed it to her.

"Thanks," said Lucy, peeling back the foil and biting into the bread.

After they had finished eating, Edmund sighed and laid back down on the blanket, staring up at the sky. "Lucy, look, it's starting."

Lying beside him, Lucy gazed up at the full, glowing silvery-white moon as a dark purplish-black shadow of roughly the same size and shape passed by it, slowly snuffing out the light inch by inch. It looked almost like a half-moon for a few seconds, then a sliver, then a pearly-strip as thin and translucent as fishing-line, and-in a seemingly magical manner-the sky was all black save for, of course, the stars.

"It's so beautiful," whispered Lucy, rolling over half-way and resting her head on the side of his arm.

"So it was worth the trip up here?" Edmund made sure, only half-joking, sliding the arm she was resting against under her so that her head ended up more or less on his chest.

"Yes," she murmured, thinking that, even if there hadn't been an eclipse she would have still enjoyed herself. There was something about being with Edmund that made her feel safe and warm, like being in an old familiar dream that never dulled; not even in its darkest, most nightmarish moments. With her childhood companion there was always a light at the end of the tunnel, something enduring, endearing, and constantly reassuring.

They fell asleep like that, warm and close together, waking up just before dawn when it was still dark out and the world around them was covered in fresh dew.

Helping Lucy (the _queen_, the queen of Narnia, he struggled to bear in mind) up onto her feet, Edmund said, "We should be heading back-before you're missed."

It was over? Already? Lucy hadn't fully realized it until just then, but if she could have had one wish the night before, one wish as she had laid there resting against Edmund's chest (how hard it could be to think of him always as _Sir _Edmund when it came to courtly manners!), it would have been to stay there for ever. If the night could have extended upon its hours-if the eclipse could have been real magic for them, not just pretend, then she might have rested on and on peacefully; not having to wake up confused and lost.

Although she had come for the eclipse, largely her reason for being there was because she wanted to be with Edmund. She'd always wanted to be with him. It wasn't supposed to be romantic though; she wasn't supposed to feel what she felt, watching him pack up the hamper and fold the blanket; she wasn't supposed to half-want to reach down and lightly caress the back of his neck-so why _did_ she? Why did she want that? What about everything at stake? King Caspian, Cair Paravel, Narnia, her subjects, Prince Rilian-wasn't thinking about Ed like she was at that moment wrong because of them?

What was this yearning she could feel-such a strange, strange emotion that, for some reason, made her think of the way Peter looked at Susan-and what was that apologetic, almost-tearful expression she could see in Edmund as he stood up straight and stared directly into her eyes?

"Lucy," breathed Edmund so softly she could barely hear him. There was no trace of 'Your Majesty' in his tone now, he wasn't addressing her as a queen.

"What is it?" whispered Lucy, feeling shaky.

One of his arms slipped around her waist, pulling her to him. She knew she should protest, lightly pull away. He wouldn't resist if she did, Ed would never hurt her, but she didn't force herself to leave his grasp. She didn't feel like Queen Lucy; she felt like Lucy Pevensie again-an older version of the little girl who would have followed Edmund Philippe to the end of the world and back all for the sake of her childish love and admiration for him.

His face came closer, and the next thing Lucy knew, his lips were pressed against her own.

This was her second kiss; and while she wasn't sure how it compared to her first-for she did love her husband, muddled as everything regarding that was becoming-but she knew, at least, that she liked it. She liked it a lot.

They broke apart-then kissed again, a little more lingeringly this time.

Edmund's free hand, the one not attached to the arm around Lucy's waist, reached for her hand and he started to intertwine his fingers with hers. It was her left hand-he felt the cold metal of her wedding ring against the sides of his fingers, and returned to his senses.

"Oh, by the Lion, what am I doing?" Edmund gasped, letting her go.

Lucy bit her lower lip, trying not to cry. "I'm sorry..."

"There's nothing for you to be sorry about, Your Majesty," he said, swallowing hard; "_I_ was the idiot."

She was 'Your Majesty' once again. Reality hit her with a sickening thud.

"Edmund-" Lucy reached for his hand, but he wouldn't give it to her.

"Come," he spoke stiffly through clenched teeth, furious with himself. "I had better get you back to Cair Paravel at once."

When they came to the water-gate and, a few minutes later, the wardrobe-tunnel, Edmund bowed. "Forgive me, Your Majesty."

"Edmund-" Lucy's voice cracked-she barely even knew what she was trying to say.

All that day, Queen Lucy barely spoke. Caspian saw that she was upset, and tried everything he could think of to cheer her up, but his kindness only made her feel worse. She was grateful to him for all he did for her, wasn't she? She loved him, didn't she? Of course she did. But, then, if that were so, why did she still look at Edmund thinking the very same thing she said to him on the day she married the king? _I wish it were you. _

**AN: Puh-lease remember to leave a review on your way out. **


	13. An Escape

"Peter, I need you to do something for me."

"Huh?" muttered Peter, glancing up from a declaration King Caspian was having him write out-a letter of sorts to the armies in the Lone Islands.

He had been buried so deeply in his work that he hadn't even heard anyone come in to begin with. Edmund stood before him, looking anxious and broken, like he was doing all he could just to hold himself together.

"Edmund," Peter blinked at his former squire, current brother-in-law, with growing concern, "are you all right?"

Edmund shook his head. "No, but I will be if you help me."

"Are you in some sort of trouble?" he asked, placing the quill-pen down and pushing the paper and inkwell aside for the time being.

"Not yet, no." said Edmund in a strained voice.

"What's this all about, Ed?"

Swallowing hard and shutting his eyes, Edmund told himself it was now or never-he had to do this. He mustn't think of it and lose his nerve, he must simply do it. "Since I was your squire before I was knighted, and you're high-ranking, you still have authority over me. You could send me away again, like you did when I was drinking, before I came to court, couldn't you?"

"Oh, by Aslan, you've not taken it up again, have you?"

"No, Pete, I haven't, I swear."

Peter's brow crinkled. "Then why-"

"I just can't be here." Edmund confided in him, trusting his brother-in-law in a way he wouldn't have trusted most other knights. "I have to get as far away from court as possible before things get out of hand."

"Things?"

"Let me put this way," said Edmund; "if you wont help me, if I stay here, then there's a very good chance you are going to find my head rotting on a pike. Either I'll end up stark raving mad, or I'll be executed for treason."

"Treason?" Peter let out a nervous laugh, unsure if that was supposed to be some kind of joke. If it was, he had to admit he didn't exactly see what was so funny about it. "Edmund, you're loyal to the crown of Narnia."

"In all ways but one," he muttered, shifting his gaze downward.

It was then that Peter began to catch on. "Lucy?"

Edmund nodded self-condemningly. "I love her; and she's queen. Caspian's queen."

"But you would never-"

"No, I wouldn't." said Edmund. "All the more so if I'm far, far away from her."

"Ed," said Peter in an understanding, brotherly tone. "Do you really think this is necessary?"

"This is only going to get worse and worse, can't you see that?" Edmund all but cried out, struggling to keep his voice down.

"You don't have to leave court," Peter tried with the best of intentions.

"Peter, if you care about me, this country, or your sister, you will send me away as quickly as possible." he sounded on the verge of tears. "I swear, I will go anywhere you ask me to, just get me away from this place before my betrayal destroys everything."

"You're not a traitor." said Peter, reaching out and putting his hand on Edmund's shoulder, realizing for the first time-though not exactly shocked by this-that it was shaking.

"I am as long as I'm here." he whispered.

"Ed-"

"Please, I beg you, do this for me-for Narnia." His nose was red and a few tears escaped, rolling down the side of his face.

"You really need this, don't you?" Peter realized gently, glancing at him with more sympathy now.

"I wouldn't ask you if I didn't." Edmund assured him.

Sighing deeply, Peter folded his arms across his chest and leaned his back against the high-up arm of a chair close-by to where he was standing. "The crown needs an ambassador in the Lone Islands," he said at last; "somebody to read a letter aloud to the armies there and to manage some issues we've been having with the governor. I was going to send someone else, but I feel as your former master that you would get more benefit from such a trip. What do you say?"

"I can't thank you enough." said Edmund, graciously, feeling a light flood of relief washing over him, however much sadness was mixed in with it.

"You'll find a ship in the east harbor-towards the south end." Peter told him. "It's run by servants under my command; they can leave whenever you tell them to-at any given hour."

"I want to leave tonight, Peter, late tonight."

Nodding, he replied, "Tell them so, then, they'll not disobey."

"All right."

"Ed?"

"Yeah?"

"I will miss you."

"I'll miss you, too, Pete."

Late that night, Edmund went quietly to the stables and saddled up a horse that, while technically owned by Sir Peter, was his for the time being. He didn't wake the sleeping stable-hands who dozed in the corner-one of them apparently somewhat allergic to hay and sneezing every six seconds-to help him; he got everything ready himself. He'd left a goodbye note for his sister and had asked Peter to explain the matter to her properly if she still didn't seem to understand why he had to leave, and now he was on the home-stretch so to speak. Of course he hadn't bothered to say any farewells to the other knights, or even to the king, but he figured that since it had been Peter who sent him away, they wouldn't be likely to smell a rat and start asking questions.

There was, however, one goodbye he was longing to get out of, but simply knew he could not. And that was to Lucy. If it weren't for his promise never to hurt her again, he might have reasoned with his conscience that it was perfectly fine to leave without saying anything; but he wasn't so heartless; he knew perfectly well how much it would upset her if she woke up the next morning to find her old friend gone, not to return for a long, long while-maybe never. Edmund didn't have any intentions of coming back to court, or even to the mainland of Narnia; there would always be a need for ambassadors, and he would always have a need to stay as far away from Caspian and Lucy as possible. A win-win. Not really, not in a happy sense, but better than the worst-case scenario, certainly.

How, though, could he say goodbye to her at this hour? No one would be mad enough to let a knight in to see a queen in the dead of night. Indeed, no sane knight would ask such a thing if he valued his freedom-and his head. But Edmund knew he daren't wait until the morning; for everyone to see him leave for the islands, starting talk and all that rot. Goodness, if he waited, anything the next day might prevent him. His stepmother could kick up some ruckus, or Peter, with all the best intentions, could change his mind. Or Susan could say something...or Caspian...or Rilian...or anyone, really. No, he must go that very night as planned. And he would see Lucy one last time all the same-through the tunnel that led into the wardrobe in her chambers. She had told him that no one else, besides Rilian and Caspian and herself, knew about it. And since no one knew about it, or about his long-term skills of slipping in and out of the apple orchard unnoticed, he knew he could get in and out without being seen.

"Wait here, boy." Edmund told his-well, Peter's-horse, giving the cob a light pat on the neck as he tied him to a small pillar outside of the orchard.

To anyone not looking for it, the door leading into the tunnel would have been impossible to detect, but to Edmund-who already knew everything about it, down to quietest way of lifting the latch-it was the easiest thing in the word to get it open and climb into the dark hole. He cursed himself for not thinking to bring a lantern, or at least a candle, this time. Thankfully, however many bumps on the nose he got from turning the wrong way too quickly and smashing his face into a wall where he'd thought there was only darkness, the path was straight enough so that he didn't have to worry about getting lost.

Finally he came to the rack and pushed it aside. This was a little difficult because it was designed to be moved when the wardrobe doors were open, not when they were closed, but he managed in the end. After that, the only dilemma was getting the blasted doors open. Of course there was an easy solution to that; he could just knock. But what if Caspian was in there with Lucy? As far as he knew they never spent the night together, but things did change, and they clearly loved one another, so you never really knew. If he could just walk into the room without announcing himself, then he could check to be sure Lucy was alone. Knocking ran a terrible risk.

Still, the doors were shut too tightly for him to just waltz right in there like a thief in the night. Looking both ways in the darkness, Edmund sucked his teeth in annoyance and pressed his ear against the left door, listening for voices. He didn't hear anyone. Of course he didn't. No one with a lick of sense would be up at this hour. What to do?

Nervously, he gave in and lightly rapped his knuckles against the wood.

Lucy, as it turned out, wasn't actually asleep after all. She had been unable to fall asleep that night, still feeling confused about everything that had been happening lately, finding it impossible to make herself wind down and get some proper rest. She was sitting in a comfortable armchair with soft green velvet cushions, drinking a cup of tea, glancing from time to time into the fire that crackled further into the hearth.

When she heard the knock, she sat up and walked curiously over to the wardrobe. Opening the door and stepping backwards automatically, Lucy was ready for anything-or so she thought.

"Edmund?" said the little queen as she stood before him in her white nightgown, her long hair pulled back with a gossamer gold-thread ribbon, blinking at him in astonishment as he walked out of the wardrobe and into her chambers.

"I hope I didn't wake you, Your Majesty."

Lucy shook her head. "You didn't." She paused for a moment before adding, "What are you doing here?"

"I've come to say goodbye, Lu." said Edmund, dispensing with the formalities for the time being, since he didn't know if he'd ever see her again.

"You're leaving?" Lucy's brows furrowed. "Where?"

"The Lone Islands," he found himself avoiding her eyes momentarily. "Peter's sending me as an ambassador."

"What?" Lucy looked rather vexed with her brother for a second. "Can't he send someone else? There must be at least half-a-dozen knights who he-"

Edmund held up his hand, trying to cut in. "I asked him to send me, all right?"

"Why?" Her eyes widened and filled with tears.

"I think you know why."

"What happened at the hill-" she began in a trembling voice.

"-was a mistake, a big mistake." Edmund finished shortly, not because he was cross, but because he wasn't sure he could deal with listening to her innocently try to justify it, not fully realizing the danger they'd put themselves in. If anything, he was still angry, not with her, with himself. He loathed himself for being so incredibly dumb.

"Please don't go away," Lucy whispered, her chin shaking.

"This is for the best," Edmund told her, reaching over and lifting his hand up like he was about to touch the side of her face, then changing his mind and lowering it. "I only want safety for us both and happiness for you-this is the only way that's ever going to happen."

"Then why does it feel like the world's coming to an end?" murmured Lucy, weeping openly now, knowing Edmund wouldn't hold it against her.

"Because ours is, Lu." he said sadly. "We're not little children anymore-we haven't been for a while-it's about time we faced up to that. I will always remember you as the best friend I ever had-still do have. I want to think that somewhere a queen, contented and safe and loyal to her country, remembers me when she has nothing better to do. But I don't want to stay here, seeing you every day, and end up doing something we're both going to regret."

"Doing what?" her lips parted in confusion, half-gaping at him.

He smiled faintly. "By the Lion, you really don't know what I'm talking about, do you?"

"Well, you can't mean-" she stopped mid-sentence and reflected on what had happened on the hill between them. "Ed, we wouldn't."

"Things happen," he said darkly. "Do you think when I took you up there to see the eclipse I thought I was going to end up kissing you?"

"I let you," Lucy felt the need to interject. "I know if I hadn't, you-"

"It wasn't your fault, Lu, it was mine-we both know that." Edmund said in a very this-part-of-the-conversation-is-over tone of voice.

"If you've done something wrong, so have I."

He shook his head. "No, you haven't. Look, I have to leave, I'm sailing away tonight."

"You don't have to-"

"Yes I do, everything's been arranged-and besides," he forced a playful smirk, "I'm really looking forward to rattling that governor up a bit-according to Peter he hasn't paid his taxes to the crown in seven or eight years; this should be fun."

Lucy felt a smile come up onto her own lips envisioning Edmund storming into the Lone Islands and giving the governor a good what-for. She even started to laugh a bit, Edmund laughing with her. Then their laughter turned into tears.

"Goodbye, Lucy Pevensie."

She almost said she wasn't Lucy Pevensie anymore, but she held off, knowing why he said it.

"Goodbye, Edmund Philippe."

He pulled something out of his doublet pocket. "Here, give me your hand."

She reached out her hand and he placed a small, white object into it. A peppermint.

"Oh, Edmund!" She threw her arms around his middle and let him hold her for a few moments before he had to leave.

Suddenly there was an awful din, slamming at the doors that led into the start of her chambers. Someone was pounding their fists against the wood of the double-doors. Loud enough to be an army, Lucy thought slow-wittedly before it dawned on her. An army! The other knights. There wasn't only one person out there, demanding to be let in. It wasn't a solitary raving lunatic; it was the other knights. There had to be a lot of them. Maybe _all _of them-to make that much noise. Except, probably, for Peter-he wouldn't have been a part of this, whatever it was. Or maybe it was only the guards. But what _were _they doing? Had they all gone completely mad?

"Come out, you traitor knight!" a deep, angry man's voice bellowed, pounding on the doors again.

Edmund! They knew Edmund was in there with her! How? It didn't matter how-something must have gone horribly wrong. All she knew was that she had to get Edmund out of her apartments, and then maybe she could try to calm the rioting crowd.

"Quick, the tunnel!" Lucy whisper-cried, dragging him over to the wardrobe.

Edmund thought he must be dreaming; how could anyone have known he was in there? Unless, provided, they knew about the tunnel...

"Get behind me," Edmund said sharply, keeping his wits about him.

"What?" said Lucy, watching bemusedly as he stationed himself in front of her and put his hand on the hilt of the sword he wore on his hip. "Why-"

She never finished asking what the matter was; before she was able to say another word, a man in a brown-and-black velvet tunic, wearing a wire-thin band of gold twisted with silver around his forehead, jumped out of the wardrobe and into the chamber, lunging for them.

"Rilian!" gasped Lucy, staring at her stepson in confused wonder. What was he doing?

"How could you?" he glowered at her, gritting his teeth.

Her forehead wrinkled. "How could I what?"

Rilian took a step closer; Edmund tightened his grip on the sword hilt protectively.

"Son, are you all right?" Lucy still didn't understand any of this.

"How dare you address me as such after betraying my father?" he demanded.

"What?" _Betraying his father? _Had he found out about her going off with Edmund the night before? If so, exactly how much did he know regarding it?

The doors burst open-the 'army' outside had apparently managed to break it down. It was actually only a handful of knights-close comrades of Prince Rilian's; young, hot-headed fellows. Every single member of the royal guard was there-human, faun, and male dryad alike-though, that was why it had sounded like so many. Four held spears; the rest all had their broadswords.

A red-headed knight with wide hips and clanking, poorly-sized armour had a bad run-in with Queen Lucy's amaranth plants, shattering a number of pots and scattering pinkish-red petals.

Lucy winced briefly at the knight, glad at least, even if her poor plants were ruined, that he hadn't been hurt.

"Take them away," Rilian snapped his fingers at guards.

The knights repeated the order for no apparent reason.

Edmund drew his sword.

"Where are they trying to take us?" Lucy asked Rilian timidly.

"To the dungeon," the prince said; he was trying to sound stern, but his voice cracked.

"But why? What did we do?"

A guard came closer but stopped in his tracks when he found Edmund's sword pointing dead-centre at his chest. "Don't you dare come near her."

"You snuck out with this so-called knight of Narnia last night, I saw you leave the orchard through the water-gate."

Oh, Aslan, so he _did_ know!

"I don't know where you went, or what you _did_..."

"It wasn't like that!" protested Lucy.

"And then," Rilian continued, "you showed him the wardrobe-tunnel so that he would be able to come and see you without anyone knowing."

"He already knew about it." Lucy wept, her shoulders shaking. "I told him before-"

"Lucy, don't say anything." Edmund cut her off.

"Where's my husband?" asked Lucy, wondering, if everything was coming out-and all wrong at that-why Caspian wasn't there trying to figure out the truth.

"Oh, _now _you have a husband?" Rilian rolled his eyes.

"Shut up-" snapped Edmund, not liking Rilian using that snappy-tone on Lucy when she was clearly frightened out of her wits. Then he remembered to add, amendingly, "-Your Highness."

"Where _is_ he?" the queen's voice was a bit stronger now.

"He doesn't know about this. We're taking care of the matter tonight, since I knew we'd catch this traitor coming in here-that's all the evidence we need. My father will hear of your treachery against him in the morning."

"Rilian, please, listen, it's not what you think-"

He wasn't listening. "What are you all standing around for?" the prince barked at the guards. "Didn't I tell you to take them?"

That was it, then, there was nothing else to be done. They clearly believed them both to be lovers and traitors. Well, Edmund wasn't going to stand aside and let them carry off poor Lucy to some dark cell on a false charge. Who knew what might happen if Caspian, misguided by his son's belief and the knowledge of the wardrobe-tunnel as a plausible way for them to have been sneaking around, wouldn't listen? At this point, he would have taken a chance, throwing himself on the mercy of the gracious Narnian court if it had only been his own life in question; but Edmund simply would not take a chance with Lucy. He had to get her out of there. And there was only one way.

Reaching behind himself to grab Lucy's arm with his free hand, Edmund led her towards the open tunnel. Rilian, seeing what he was aiming for, stood in his way, reaching over to shove his stepmother out of the traitorous knight's grasp, towards the guards.

"Stay away from her!" Edmund lifted his sword and aimed a swift, clean slash at Rilian's wrist.

The prince let out a cry of pain from his fresh wound. Blood poured from his wrist, dripping down his hand. Lucy felt dizzy and weak-kneed; she wouldn't have known what to do with herself if Edmund hadn't taken that moment to half-drag her into the tunnel.

"He's hurt," murmured Lucy, in a state of shock; "we have to go back...we have to help him...his wrist, Edmund, it-"

"Lucy, listen to me, they want to convict us both of treason, we can't go back. I have to get you some place safe until they calm down." Edmund explained quickly, still pulling her towards the door leading to the orchard.

There was a clanking sound a little ways off, like the rattling of armour.

"They're in the tunnel!" Lucy whimpered.

Edmund cursed under his breath.

The next few moments were all a blur. All Lucy could recall afterwards about it was that, somehow or other, Edmund managed to get her out of the tunnel, then out of the orchard, until the next thing she knew she was on the back of a horse with him and he was urging it to go faster.

They didn't circle around to the back courtyard like the guards probably expected them to, and so that worked in their favor; but by the time they reached the drawbridge, any real advantage they'd gained was reduced dramatically. A horn had been sounded; nearly the whole court had wakened. Many a courtier peeped out of a window, a few were lucky enough to have balconies.

King Caspian himself was awake now, and while he didn't know exactly what was going on, he sensed danger. A knight rushed to him and breathlessly informed the king that Rilian had been injured and Queen Lucy-they didn't bother to mention their accusations against her just then in the heat of the moment-was being carried off by Sir Edmund.

"Close the drawbridge so they can't get out." the king ordered his men.

Peter and Susan had rather a good view of what was happening from one of Cair Paravel's better front-facing balconies, and felt jolts of horror running up and down their spines as the bridge slowly winded up. Edmund and Lucy would be trapped inside.

"They'll never make it," Peter faltered, nearly choking.

"Peter," said Susan, never taking her eyes off the bridge; "get my bow and quiver of arrows."

"What?" Peter's light brows sank into his forehead in open confusion. What exactly did she intend to do?

"Just do it!" Susan barked.

"All right! Don't yell at me."

As soon as her husband had done as she asked, Susan lined an arrow into the bow-string and readied her aim-the guardsman working the drawbridge rigging. Her arrow struck true-not his heart, rather, his right arm; the arm he seemed to be putting the most weight on.

"Dash it, Su!" said Peter, turning away from the frighteningly pale figures of Edmund and Lucy on horseback to glance at his wife for a moment. "By the Lion's mane, you could have killed him!"

"I wasn't aiming to kill; Lucy isn't the only one who's been studying archery, you know." Susan defended herself.

Down below, watching the closing drawbridge creak in a loud, almost groaning, kind of way before it seemed to snap and the whole thing fell back open, Edmund whispered to Lucy, "Whatever happens, don't panic, all right? I've got you, I promise."

Even in her dazed state, Lucy knew Edmund had a habit of keeping his promises to her and nodded.

Then there was the thundering of the horse's hooves hitting the rough bridge-wood. Another creak...sharp clicking sounds; they'd gotten another guardsman on duty to replace the injured one, and the bridge was going up again.

Caspian, catching a glimpse of the horse rearing as the ground below his feet became more and more unsteady, was uneasy. He hadn't expected them to be _on_ the drawbridge as it closed...Lucy could fall and get hurt.

Peter watched uneasily, too. He still didn't know what had happened, why Ed and Lu had to escape like this, but he knew it wasn't going very well.

Then, almost miraculously, the rearing cob jumped onto the other side of the folding drawbridge-Lucy and Edmund still safely on his back. They galloped off into the distance before anyone was able to stop them. Stopping them would have required lowering the bridge again and sending someone else-preferably on horseback, too-across it, and that could not be done at a moment's notice.

"Lu?" Edmund double-checked to be sure she was all right, as soon as he could risk slowing the cob's pace down a bit.

"I feel so tired, Edmund." she whispered, her eyelids half-closed.

"It's shock," he told her softly, clinging to her waist. "Try to relax and take deep breaths."

"They hate me now, don't they?" she murmured indistinctly, thinking of her husband and stepson.

"No they don't." Edmund said-Lucy felt-a little too quickly. "Don't let's talk anymore right now, Lu, you're tired and I need to think."

**AN: Bet you didn't see that coming...**

**Please review!**


	14. Of Lies and Swordsmen

"Edmund?" Lucy spoke up for the first time in what might have been an hour or so.

"Yes?" he replied, still attempting to keep the tired cob at a somewhat steady trot-like pace, though he was half-convinced the horse was sleeping and walking at the same time by this point.

"I wish he believed me-Rilian, I mean."

"This whole mess is my fault," whispered Edmund, apologetically, wondering what they could possibly do now that everything had blown up in their faces.

"It's not." Lucy insisted, yawning, sounding rather, he was pretty sure, like she was still in shock-certainly not herself yet. "We didn't..."

"No," said Edmund; "but because of me, because of my coming to you like that, they wont believe the truth. We suffer for it."

"Whatever you or I say now," faltered Lucy wearily, slowly coming to realize that it wouldn't necessarily matter what she said, or what Edmund told them, she-once their beloved little queen-very well might already be condemned in their hearts.

They rode on in silence for a while longer. There was a slight rumbling from the dark sky above them that indicated a storm, or at the very least some heavy rainfall, would be forthcoming.

What am I going to do? Edmund thought wildly; where am I going to take her?

The Lantern Waste was both too obvious and too far away, so that was ruled out. There wasn't any chance of sailing away with her. They might aim for Ettinsmoor, since she had a grandfather there who might be willing to look after her if they could keep the word 'treason' out of their explanation of why she wasn't back at Cair, but that was an even greater distance away than the Lantern Waste was. They would never make it there in one night. Especially not on a poor horse as tired as the one they had the use of at the moment was. Lucy would need a bed to sleep in. Edmund felt that, seeing as he had just more or less ruined the girl's life, he owed her a dry place with a roof at the very least. He knew she wouldn't complain, poor thing, but he simply had to do _something_.

There was a country manor a few yards ahead; not a terribly large one, though clearly big enough to put-up a guest or two for the night if the owners were of a generous nature.

When they reached the front of the manor, Edmund alighted from the horse's back and helped Lucy down after him. Then he knocked on the hard oak door, noticing that the golden knocker was shaped like Aslan's head. For some reason that made him feel a little more hopeful.

"Markus, you put down that crossbow at once! Do you hear?" screamed a shrill, woman's voice from behind the door.

"But, darling, what if it's a burglar?" a pitiful-sounding man's voice answered

A burglar would have the good sense not to knock on the door before he robbed you, Edmund couldn't help thinking rather grumpily.

"No, absolutely not! You know you always shoot the wrong people!"

Edmund winced; perhaps this wasn't the best idea after all.

The door opened and a little old woman with long, wispy gray hair, wearing a yellow dressing-gown stood there. "Can I help you?"

Gulping, Edmund said, in as strong a voice he could manage, "Please, your Ladyship," -he assumed she was a noblewoman- "my name is Martin, I'm the son of a Lord." He motioned over at Lucy, who looked paler than ever, goggling helplessly at his side. A person would have to possess a heart of cold, hard stone not to feel sorry for such a tragic-looking little figure in a white nightgown. "This is my sister, Rose."

The woman's face, which had been a little strained up until that point, softened considerably.

"There was an attack on our manor, several miles away from this place," Edmund felt bad about telling such a bold-faced lie, but he couldn't very well tell them the truth: that she was their queen, who he had taken away from the castle because he feared they would try her for treason; "so father sent us off on one of his shorter, swifter horses-"

"Do you need us to go over there and help?" a little half-bald man with thick-rimmed glasses, nearly a foot shorter than his wife, appeared behind the woman, holding his crossbow. Presumably this was Markus.

"What did I tell you about that blasted crossbow?" snapped the woman over her shoulder, ordering her husband to put it away again.

"No, a messenger came after us to inform us that the house was burned to the ground...we've escaped, my sister and I, but we need a place to spend the night-we will be on our way to other relatives in the morning, but their manor is too far a journey for our horse to take without stopping, and Rose is not doing so well."

"Oh, I can see that, the poor dear!" exclaimed the woman kindly, reaching out her hands to Lucy. "She's had a shock, no?"

Edmund nodded.

"How old is she?"

Knowing Lucy looked very small for her age, Edmund told another lie. "Twelve." It certainly wasn't the _biggest_ lie he'd told that night, seeing as she'd been twelve not too long ago, however, he still felt a little rotten about it.

"Come in," said the woman finally, opening the door a little wider. "We'll see if we can't get you both something to eat. We finished supper many hours ago, and so I'm afraid you wont get anything hot as far as meat is concerned, just some cold steak and leftover vegetables. But we can fix the girl a nice cup of something warm to drink. Tea, perhaps."

"Thank you for your kindness," said Edmund as he entered, Lucy following a few steps behind.

"And for you, my good man," said Markus, "a flask of brandy? I dare say you've had a rough night yourself."

Edmund might have accepted a bit-indeed he was just about to-but quickly recalling that he had a problem with over-indulgence in drink just recently overcome, he decided against it. "No, thank you, your Lordship."

"I'm afraid," said Markus's wife, leading them into a pretty dinning-chamber with a long shinny table, "that we've only got one guest chamber to spare at the moment. Young Lord Martin, you don't mind sharing with your sister, do you?"

"He'd better not," said Markus, half joking. "He hasn't even told us the name of his father, only that's he's a lord."

"Good Lions alive, you are a beast!" laughed the woman, clicking her tongue at her husband in faux-disapproval. "Surely you see they've both been through trauma. And as neither of them have the look of a rogue or a traitor, we'll show kindness first and ask questions later."

Edmund thought it was interesting that they believed he didn't have the look of a traitor. And yet, he had fallen in love with a queen, kidnapped her, stood in the way of the law, and just given a false name and story. All that must have made him a traitor, but apparently he didn't look like one yet.

Give it time, he thought grimly in the furthest reaches of his mind, give it time, it will show on me sooner or later.

Still, he had no doubt that it was Lucy's honest face that had granted them admission into the manor, not his lack of a belated traitor's mark.

After they had been given a quick meal and the lady of the house had put Lucy in front of a fireplace to rest while she drank some green tea which Markus swore would 'set the poor child aright and steady her nerves a bit', a serving maid-who, by the way, was a faun-was rung for, and she took Edmund upstairs to the guest chamber.

It was a neat little room; a bit bare, at worst, but everything was nicely folded, and the essentials of warm blankets, well-pressed sheets, and a washbasin for cleaning faces and fingernails in the morning, were all present. The bed was large and the mattress was comfortable. If Edmund had been able to get his reeling mind to shut off, and did not have the added discomfort of knowing he was there under a fake name and on borrowed time, he might have truly gotten a good sleep. As it was, he couldn't even close his eyes until Lucy arrived, carrying an oil-lantern the maid had been kind enough to leave with her.

Because she's so young, they all thought-maid, lord, and lady alike, there's a chance the lass is still afraid of the dark.

Lucy wasn't afraid of darkness, but she was too frazzled to tell them so. Besides, she knew she would rather have a light in this strange house than not, so what was there to protest about?

"There are some very strange creatures outside," Lucy mumbled by way of greeting to Edmund as she set the lantern down on the nightstand by the washbasin. "I've caught glimpses of them from the window near the fireplace. They...they look like mushrooms."

Edmund yawned. "Dufflepuds."

"What?"

"Those mushroom thingummies are their feet-well, more like foot, actually."

"Really? I've never seen them before."

"They aren't common in Narnia anymore...nor are they very bright...only a few households still have the patience to deal with them, anyway. They're just servants, of a sort."

"How do you know all this?"

"There was a book about them in the Cair Paravel Library, I saw it once." he answered, sighing deeply.

"Edmund, where are we going? After we leave here, I mean."

He glanced up at the ceiling. "Ettinsmoor, I think."

"Not to my grandfather," said Lucy, shaking her head.

"Why? Don't you like him?" he turned to look at her again. "And it isn't as if there are a whole lot of other places I could take you."

"I barely know him, I don't know if he'll stand up for me or not, and the court knows he lives there-they'd look for me in his home."

"Then I don't know what we'll do-unless we can make him agree to keep you hidden."

Lucy caught onto something in Edmund's tone that worried her. "Why do you keep saying 'you' like that, as if you weren't going to be with me?"

"I didn't intend on it..." said Edmund, quietly, surprised by how borderline-hurt she seemed. "...on staying there with you, I mean."

"I don't want to be alone," she said shakily; "I'm really scared, Ed."

"I would never just abandon you without warning, you know that." he reassured her.

Lifting the covers up, Lucy crawled into the bed beside him. "I know."

Wordlessly, he took her hand and held it, lightly pressing his forehead against hers. "Goodnight, Lucy Pevensie."

She pulled herself as close to him as possible and took long, slow breaths, clinging to her childhood companion's hand as if it was all she had left to rely on, until sleep finally claimed her.

Later, when dawn had risen, Edmund felt something cold and hard at his neck, and slowly opened his eyes. King Caspian stood in the chamber at Edmund's side of the bed, holding a sword to his throat.

"Get up," he said angrily, glaring at his former knight.

"Yes, Your Majesty," said Edmund, letting go of Lucy's hand and pulling away from her, climbing out of the bed.

Lucy felt her hand being released and woke up, too. Gasping when she saw Caspian with the sword, she sat up straight like she was about to rush over.

"Stay where you are," Caspian ordered, giving her a brief, cutting side-glance.

"I am your man, Your Grace, and you can deliver me up to justice if you like." Edmund said, looking from the blade, to the king, to Lucy, and then back at the king again. "But king of Narnia or not, sword or no sword, I will not let you harm her. I swear on my mother's grave and on Aslan himself, if I have to kill you to protect her, I will."

"You threaten to kill me?" Caspian gritted his teeth. "I ought to kill you right now, traitor." He pressed his sword a little deeper into Edmund's neck.

Lucy let out a cry. "No, Caspian, don't! Don't hurt him! You don't understand!"

"Rilian told me you went with him somewhere the night before last, and that you showed him the wardrobe-tunnel." The king turned to his wife now, tears glistening in his eyes, still holding the blade upright so that Edmund couldn't move. "What did I ever do to you so that you had to find comfort in another man? Was being married to me so awful that you couldn't endure staying loyal? Why did you do this?"

"She's done nothing!" said Edmund.

"You be quiet or I swear I will take off your hand as revenge for what you have done to my son's wrist." snapped Caspian, pushing the blade even further in now.

"I believe, Your Majesty, that you would have to lower the blade from my neck in order to do that." he mumbled cheekily.

He pushed inwards with the sword until a teeny drop of blood showed up on Edmund's neck. "I _said_, be quiet."

"I'm sorry," wept Lucy, wanting to run to Edmund and pull him away from her husband's sword, but too afraid that Caspian would do real damage to him if she tried to get over to the other side of the bed. "...but you have to believe me, we didn't betray you, not...not really..."

"Then why did you run away with him? Why did you come to this house, so that I had to hunt the both of you down? What was he doing in your chambers last night?"

"Please, it wasn't what you think." Lucy's voice wavered. "He was coming to say goodbye to me."

"How long has he known how to get into your chambers?" demanded Caspian.

"Lucy, don't answer that." Edmund warned her, knowing, in spite of the fact that she was innocent, the whole issue with the tunnel could-and would-be used against her.

Caspian pushed in with his sword again and another bead-sized drop of blood rolled down into Edmund's collar.

"Stop it!" screamed Lucy, never having seen her kind, caring husband like this before.

"Lucy, for once I want the truth," ordered the king; "how long has he known?"

"After I saved him with the cordial, we met up in the apple orchard," she sobbed, "and I...I showed him the tunnel..."

"Do you love him?" growled Caspian, his expression tight with restrained emotion.

"I-" she began.

"She doesn't love me," Edmund blurted out before she could say another word. "We're not lovers. The queen is innocent."

Another light push; another drop of blood. A faint groan of pain escaped from Edmund.

"No, stop!" bawled Lucy, her shoulders shaking violently by this point.

"You did not answer my question,"

"I don't want to," whispered the little queen, for even she could see where this was heading. If she said no, they might not believe her, still claiming she had betrayed the king. If she said yes, then her fate would be sealed altogether.

"You are both under arrest," said Caspian at last, slowly lowering his sword.

"Not Lucy," said Edmund, edging towards the side of the bed, slipping his hand behind the headboard for some reason. "Bring your guards in for me and I'll go with them now. Let them touch one hair on her head, and I put up a fight."

"You are both accused, I cannot play favourites." Caspian told them, looking at Lucy as if really seeing her for the first time. "Besides, even the one closest to me may abuse my trust."

From behind the headboard, Edmund pulled out his sword. "Your Majesty, I don't want to do this."

The chamber door swung open and the king's knights and guards burst in. "We don't want you to either!"

"You brought all your knights with you?" asked Edmund, clearly a little surprised. "The whole army was outside waiting for us...waiting for Lucy to confess to something she didn't do?"

"All except Sir Peter, I did not want him to see his sister taken into custody."

"He wouldn't have, so you needn't have bothered." said Edmund, coldly, as Lucy slowly crept over the bed and stood behind him. "All there is going to be to see is my sword flashing and you on the ground."

"You still mean to fight me?"

"To the death if I have to."

"So it has come to this, has it, _Sir _Edmund?" Caspian practically spat the word 'sir'.

"So it has."

"I'm not going to fight a traitorous boy younger than my own son."

"Fine, then avoid all this and let her go free. If I'm the threat to you and your kingdom-your country-then arrest me with your word that Queen Lucy is shielded."

"Don't talk as if I am afraid of you," said Caspian, bitterly.

"Well, you are _bravely_ refusing to fight a swordsman half your age, aren't you?"

"Edmund!" Lucy put in angrily.

"I do not want to kill you without a fair trial."

"Why not?" he taunted callously. "That sure seems to be your way."

"Why you dirty, stinking son of a-" Caspian meant only to reach out and slap the former knight, who had so clearly over-stepped and forgotten himself, with the flat of the blade, but Edmund blocked the previously harmless blow, and a real sword fight was almost started.

It was only when Lucy shouted, "Oh, stop it, both of you. That's the worst of boys and men! You're all a bunch of swaggering, bullying idiots!" that they stopped and Caspian ordered his guards to apprehend them.

Edmund tried, at first, to give a quick, stunning blow to anyone who came near himself or Lucy, but Caspian gave him a sharp kick to the shins so that he winced and dropped his sword by mistake, instantly disarmed.

Another knight swiftly took the mislaid sword away.

As they were dragged off, Lucy gave her husband, King Caspian, who she had liked so well before this unfortunate incident, one last look. "You said you loved me."

Caspian turned his back on her. "You never said you loved me."

**AN: ****Please review.**


	15. The writing on the wall

The Cair Paravel dungeon reeked of sulfur. It was not one of those dark, damp dungeons where you nearly passed out from the smell of rotting corpses; Caspian, not being a tyrant, tried his best to make sure it was a reasonably clean place, not too horrible considering what its purpose was, after all. Still, it didn't take a genius to know that, while it was not exactly a blood-bath, there had been persons who had come down here and never returned to the unbarred sunlight. Worse were the thoughts of those who were led out, into the warm outer realms once more, only to have their heads cut off or their necks broken-an execution.

Now, to be completely fair, most of the people who had suffered so dreadfully, having such horrid deaths, deserved it to some extent. Largely, they were murders or thieves or rapists or traitors to their country, and so they got what was coming to them. But Edmund, as he was taken down those narrow stone steps, his expression recoiling automatically thanks to the brimstone scent, couldn't help wondering if there had been others like himself and Lucy who had ended up here-the worse place in all of Narnia, perhaps-by some nasty mistake. Had there been other traitors before him who hadn't meant to betray? Had there been queens like Lucy living in misery because they had unwittingly disappointed their king?

He decided that there had to have been. After all, Caspian was not a bad person and, for the most part, he was a good king-his subjects truly did love him. And even an impulsive, hot-headed prince like Rilian might turn out to be a good follow-up king. Yet, surely there had been kings before them who were less than honourable. And if good, kindly rulers like Caspian and Rilian could send a frightened little queen, just barely in her early teenaged years, to such a place, then what doubt was there that a wicked king before them hadn't done, if not something worse, than at least the same?

Edmund wished he could see Lucy right then; they had taken her down into her cell through another way, and he was worried about her. Envisioning the poor little girl who used to meet him at the lamppost, the sweet young woman he'd kissed on the hill the morning after the eclipse, afraid and alone in a dark corner of so grim a place made him want to cry. It made him want to throw all of his body-weight on the guards, knocking them over, and rush to Lucy's side telling her everything would be all right. But he was so tired; he knew they would catch him, that he would never reach her before that.

Finally they arrived at his cell. It was dark and roomy with only a stool and a hard-looking bunk for furniture. Ghastly, indeed, but not gruesome. There was one window; very small and quite high-up, letting only a few slates of light in. The little sunbeams fell, Edmund noticed as the guards began to lock the cell-door after more or less shoving him in there with a rough heave, on an inscription. It didn't look official, not like something whoever built the place had carved, not a true engraving, but, rather, words embedded by someone who had been a prisoner in there-most likely long before his time. One or two of the letters were slightly faded, but Edmund could still read them without much difficultly.

The inscription said: _'When Aslan bares his teeth, winter meets its death. The Lion shall show me mercy' _in long, deep block letters.

They did not seem like the words of a lunatic or a truly black-hearted criminal, so he couldn't help but wonder if the person who had written that had simply made the same foolish mistake he had, falling in love with the wrong person and putting himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was stupid; and it was traitorous, but he hadn't wanted to hurt anyone. If Aslan really had shown mercy to the man-for somehow he just knew it had to have been a man, something about the shaping of the letters not being girly enough for a woman-Edmund hoped he, too, would be given such mercy. All the same, he would forgo any forgiveness, he would now put his head on the block, if only it would mean Lucy being released. She deserved to be back in her royal apartments, safe and sound, not here, living like a prisoner.

Although Edmund didn't know it (the stone walls were very thick), Lucy's cell was the next one over from his. Hers was a very little bit nicer than his; possessing a small table and a proper chair instead of a stool, though it hadn't any cushions, as was fitting for a queen-even one in disgrace. Interestingly, there was an inscription on her wall, too, and the letters were curly-a bit more faded than the one on Ed's wall as well-like they had been carved by a lady. It said: _'When Aslan shakes his mane, we shall have spring again. The Lion will give me justice.' _

Lucy ran her fingers along the words on her wall; wondering who had written that and what crime they had been accused of.

"Your Majesty," a small voice said as the cell-door creaked open.

Taking her hand off the wall and spinning around, Lucy turned to face her visitor, a talking badger with sad eyes and a sympathetic, furry little face. She liked him at once and was quite sure she had seen him working around the castle during her short-lived time as queen, even if she had not known the fellow personally. At least his face seemed much more understanding than the guards'-a friend when she had almost thought she had none.

"Hullo," she answered, noticing now that the badger was carrying some blankets and a wooden box in his black arms.

"I am sorry you are imprisoned, Your Majesty," said the badger, shaking his head. "Whatever wrong you did or did not do, I am a badger, and badgers do not forget. I cannot forget that you were a kindly, good queen to the beasts during your sort rein, and can only wish for the best for you."

Tears of gratitude filled Lucy's eyes; and she came over to him and kissed him on the top of his head.

"No need for all that, Your Majesty."

"The guards let you in here?" Lucy asked when she found she could speak again. "With those things you've brought?"

"Yes," said the badger; "but they are not from me, they are from your husband; he did not wish you to be cold tonight, since you must sleep here."

That explained the blankets. "What about the box?"

"Ah, well, his Majesty says it gets very dark here at night and sometimes, depending on the season, it gets almost pitch black at certain hours. So he's given you some candles and matches."

"Has he said anything else about me or Edmund?" asked Lucy, after a pause.

"You mean the former Sir Edmund Philippe?"

Lucy's heart caught in her throat. "Former?"

"His Highness, Prince Rilian, has officially stripped him of his title, Milady; King Caspian may give it back, if he dismisses the case in the end. No one knows. For the time being, he has no titles anymore. He is a nobody."

She began to breathe easy again, her heart-rate slowing down now that she understood the badger's meaning. "Do you really believe that?"

"No, I'm a badger, I remember how bravely Edmund fought in the raid," replied the kind beast. "But to the court, at the moment, he is considered a nobody. They still call you queen, for now."

"Thank you," Lucy whispered, taking one of the blankets and pulling it around her shoulders.

"I must leave now, unless there is anything further, Your Majesty." the badger told her. Actually, he would have much rather stayed and kept the poor queen company, but he knew it wouldn't be allowed. "If it is any comfort, my queen, I do not believe King Caspian intends for you to stay here very long."

Lucy nodded, trying not to cry again as she watched the badger trudge out of the room, leaving the box of candles and matches on the table.

Caspian had been right, it was soon almost unbearably dark; and Lucy lit a candle, watching the little flame. It flickered twice before she could get a match thats fire would actually stay on the wick. For some reason it made her think of the Lantern Waste, making her feel more lonely than ever. She wished Peter was there with her, always having been such a wonderful comforter. No, forget that, she didn't wish that at all; she wished she was with her brother anywhere but here in the dungeon. She wished she and Edmund were little children again. Lucy found she missed his sister, her sister-in-law, Lady Susan, too.

Meanwhile, Caspian had spoken to Edmund's father and stepmother so that they would know where their son was. The half-Calormene stepmother instantly burst into tears, and even said, once very quietly to her husband on their way out, that she now thought it would have been better if they had simply married 'Eddie' off to poor little Lucy Pevensie when the countess first brought up the subject. Then none of this would have happened. All those notions of marrying the boy off to a Tarkheena seemed rather silly in light of where her stepson was at the moment.

What was worse, they weren't even allowed to see him, as the king had decided that there would be no visitors permitted at present. The first visitor to be allowed in to see Edmund would not arrive for another two days; and in the meantime, Lucy was taken out of the dungeon and restored to living in proper chambers again. They weren't, as one might assume, her old chambers-the queen's chambers-rather they were simpler wings of the castle with only a few white-walled rooms and two windows that, even when their curtains were drawn to let in the sunlight, were always latched. There was one set of doors; and more often than not, a guard or two just so happened to be there on the other side of them.

While still the queen in name, Lucy continued to feel like more of a prisoner than anything else. It was true that she now had ladies-in-waiting again, no longer slept in a cell, and wore fine royal garments just as she had before being arrested, but she was not even permitted to be outside for more than an hour a day-and that was only accompanied by at least one stern-faced, hawked-eyed maid-servant. Fancy meals on golden plates were brought daily, the doors opened for the badger every few hours bringing in any material things she might need, yet the king himself never came to see her-nor did Rilian.

When she finally mustered up enough courage to ask her maid-servants about Edmund (no one had told her whether or not he was still imprisoned), they wouldn't answer her. Some of them shot her dirty-looks; others would avoid her eyes; and the remainder would act quiet and bland, changing the subject immediately.

Edmund remained in his cell, thinking over everything that had happened, replaying every moment in his mind. He made a little engraving of his own on the wall, using a pocketknife from his doublet pocket that the guards had not taken away. It was not words, rather, it was a little picture of the lamppost; a poor likeness to the real thing, perhaps, but done well-enough that one could tell within a couple of glances what it was supposed to be.

There was the sound of the door opening, and a blond, deep-chested knight in a toffee-coloured tunic walked in. At first, Edmund thought he was dreaming, since he'd had no visitors up until this point, but he soon realized that his brother-in-law truly was standing there.

"Ed?"

"Pete, the guards let you in?" He had been sitting on the floor by his little lamppost carving, not having bothered with the stool (it had a slight crack on the seat, anyway); now, with a faint grunt, he got up on his feet again.

"King Caspian agreed to let me visit you, allowing me to pass is simply following orders for them," Peter explained, his eyes downcast, looking pained.

"The king saw you, then?"

Peter nodded.

Edmund couldn't help raising a brow and asking, "Where have you been?"

"Because of my rank I've been given a manor in the countryside, away from court, in addition to other properties. I left Susan behind at that manor, I did not wish her to remain at Cair."

"Why?"

"Because," sighed Peter, lowering his voice-just in case, "she had a hand in helping you escape the night you and Lucy jumped my horse over the drawbridge, and I don't want her called in for questioning."

Edmund nodded. "She took it all right?"

"Well, you know Susan, none too pleased about living away from everything, but it really couldn't be helped. Besides, I believe she may be with child; so that would be two lives in danger if she remained here."

"Did they call _you_ in for questioning, Peter?" Edmund asked quietly, his Adam's apple bobbing like he was holding back a cry.

"Yes, they did." he admitted grimly, wincing. "Lord Sopespian's a nightmare, let me tell you that."

"Have you seen Lucy?" said Edmund, biting his lower lip so hard that he tasted blood.

Peter shook his head. "The only male creature that's been allowed in to see her since they let her out of the dungeon is a badger who works as a sort of manservant to the king and his son."

"So she's not in a cell anymore, at least." Edmund was comforted by that.

"I will get in to see her soon, Ed. They cannot deny me entry for ever, I am her brother."

Edmund glanced up towards the only window and muttered, "There's a rumour amongst guards-I hear them talking sometimes outside when they are patrolling the grounds nearby-that King Caspian is already looking to replace Lucy as queen, that he's taken an interest in Lord Pole's daughter, is it true?"

"No, Lucy's fate is undecided, but I was under the impression that Jill Pole was precontracted to my cousin."

"Peter," said Edmund, a little shakily, just to set the record straight; "we didn't, you know, Lucy and I...we...didn't do what they think we did."

"I know," murmured Peter, looking very sorrowful.

"They wont put her to death, will they?" Simply saying those words made Edmund's chest ache, but he had to know, and Peter was the only one he could ask.

"You know I wouldn't let it come to that, but even if it were not for my intervention King Caspian wouldn't put a child on the block, I shouldn't think."

"He'll send her away if...if she's convicted?"

"Probably."

"And me?"

Peter couldn't look his brother-in-law in the eyes. "I really don't know, Ed."

"They'll behead me, won't they?"

"No..." he did not sound convinced.

"I don't care," said Edmund. "I don't care what they do to me, since there's no chance of getting away now, I just wish the king had given me some sort of reassurance that Lucy would be..." Here his voice trailed off.

"I won't testify against either of you," Peter promised him. "That's what they want, but I won't."

"I knew you wouldn't."

"I don't think they like me so much anymore."

"Because you won't go against your own sister and brother-in-law?"

Peter went a little red in the face. "Yes, and because I got into a fist-fight with Lord Sopespian."

In spite of everything, Edmund felt the overwhelming urge to laugh long and loud at the mental-image of Sir Peter Wolf's Bane hitting that smug, irksome Telmarine-Narnian lord. "Seriously?"

"He bumped me on the way out of a meeting."

"You hit him for that? Really?"

Peter scowled, looking dangerously angry just thinking about it. "No, after he bumped me, he made a distasteful comment regarding Lucy, that's when I hit him."

"What did he say?" Edmund wanted to know.

"He made the vulgar suggestion that there was no point in having a trial and witnesses and all that rot to begin with when King Caspian could simply sleep with his wife and would know if she was a virgin by whether or not she bled."

"If I get out of this alive, remind me to stuff my knuckles up his nose at least once." he growled.

"I have to go now, Ed." Peter said, after a pause. "I will try to come back and see you again...if they'll let me."

"If you see Lucy, can you tell her I said I was sorry?"

"This was all a misunderstanding, it wasn't really-" he began.

"No, Pete, I could have stopped this...I shouldn't have used that tunnel to go see her that night...just because I knew about it didn't mean I had a right to use it."

"Be strong, Narnia is still a merciful place."

"I don't know if I believe that all the time."

"What about the inscription?" asked Peter, glancing at the wall.

"I don't know if whoever did that actually got his mercy in the end."

"But you like to think he did?"

"Of course."

"What about your picture? If it's supposed to be the Lamppost, you ought to carve little lines like light coming out of it."

"But there is no light, Peter." whispered Edmund, his voice nearly inaudible. "It's flickering...that's why I didn't put any lines...the real one might burn as bright as ever, but mine flickers."

**AN: Please review.**


	16. Fevers & Rebellions

It was raining, just barely; nothing more than a simple sun shower, mostly drizzle. But Lucy's ladies-in-waiting all refused to take her out into the garden or the courtyard on account of the so-called 'bad weather' all the same. Instead, they more or less _made_ her sit by the window with a piece of cloth and a selection of many-coloured threads to work on embroidering a sampler.

Lucy couldn't help thinking that it was perfectly beastly of them to boss her around as if they were her elder sisters rather than her servants, like she wasn't even their queen. Just because she was accused of being with one of her knights did not give them the right to act as if she was an errant toddler who needed a slap on the wrist and firm direction. Of course they never physically hit her-that would have been treason-but they could be unreasonable in a way that-Lucy felt-was quite on purpose more often than not.

There was absolutely nothing the matter with the weather-it was a few lousy water droplets, not a thunderstorm. And since they wouldn't tell her anything useful, or say anything of real comfort, it seemed the least they could do would be to let her go outside for her hour out-of-doors. All the same, she knew she daren't ask them to let her go on her own. The one time she'd tried it they'd given her such an intense unanimous glower that she hadn't much choice but to crumble under its weight. It was almost as if they simply assumed that the moment she was on her own she would be flying into another knight's arms, betraying her husband again.

Placing her needle down (weary of sewing, never having liked it all that much to begin with), Lucy reached up and touched the seed-pearls she still wore around her neck, lightly dragging her thumb long the little dagger pendant. No one knew it was from Edmund, so it was safe for her to wear it still.

Then there was a knock at the chamber doors, and the badger manservant-who Lucy had learned was called Trufflehunter-waddled in. "A visitor, your Majesty," he announced meekly.

Confused, Lucy removed the unfinished sampler from her lap and stood up, peering curiously towards the door as a tall, familiar-looking young man walked in.

Her lips parted and a cry of joy ran out of her throat, filling the whole previously-dreary room with momentary happiness. "Peter!"

"Lu!" As her elder brother he chose to forgo formalities and rush to her with his arms open.

"Oh, Peter!" screamed the poor little queen, more of a frightened, lost child found at long last than anything else at the moment; throwing herself into her brother's arms and clinging to him for dear-life. She then promptly began sobbing into his lower chest, unable to help herself, or make herself stop once she had started.

"Shh...it's all right..." whispered Peter, placing a hand tenderly on her hairline and bending down to kiss the very top of her forehead.

"I've missed you so much," Lucy told him, mumbling in so low a voice that if he hadn't known her so well, hadn't been able to guess at what she meant to say, he wouldn't have understood a word of it.

"Who's this one?" a snippy lady-in-waiting's voice demanded.

"It's Sir Peter," someone answered airily in an off-hand manner; "the queen's brother."

"What's he doing here?"

"His Majesty, King Caspian, granted him passage." said Trufflehunter.

"We will talk alone, Lu." Peter decided, taking one of his little sister's hands in his own and leading her towards the doors.

"His Majesty has put the queen in our charge," a middle-aged chambermaid told him rather gruffly.

"She is a queen, not a scullery-child, and if she is in anyone's charge, it's mine." Peter snapped back, his blue eyes fixing coldly, not only upon the maid who had spoken up, but also on all the other ladies-in-waiting as well-a solid warning for them not to stand in his way. He had not come so far, nor fought so hard to see her, simply to have her snatched away so quickly by a bunch of know-it-all women. "I am her brother; I have been watching after Lucy since she was a baby. Besides, it isn't as if we are going far, just out to the garden."

"The rain's cleared up," Lucy pointed out; "and I've not had my hour yet."

"You will be back in time for tea, Your Grace?"

Lucy nodded. "Yes, I believe so. Come along, Peter."

The air in the garden was fresh and cool, the way it only is after a partially wet morning, and the sun peered through the dark-edged clouds in a gentle, golden manner. But it wasn't the weather that held Queen Lucy's attention at the moment-it was her brother. She had so much she wanted to ask him; and once she was sure they were out of ear-shot of everyone except for the possibility of a talking mole or two, busy trimming the rose bushes and digging in the mulch, she dared to voice them.

"Where's Susan? I haven't seen her since I've come back...I even tried sending for her once...I thought because she was Edmund's sister she might know..."

"She knows nothing," sighed Peter, walking with his hands behind his back, clicking his tongue sadly; "and-Aslan willing-that is how it will remain. I've left her in the countryside to keep her safe."

"Oh, Peter, it was _her_ arrow...wasn't it?" Lucy whispered shakily, a memory of that night she and Ed had jumped the drawbridge flickering into her mind-flashing briefly like a second of dark lightning.

He glanced both ways, then nodded.

"I see," said Lucy, closing her eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply, and then opening them again. "Do you know where Edmund is? I've tried asking so many times, but ever since that night no one will tell me much of anything."

"I've seen him," said Peter.

"When?" Lucy found herself holding her breath.

"A day or so ago," he replied. "In the dungeon."

She grimaced. "Aren't they going to let him go?"

"I don't know, Lu."

"They could just send him away somewhere," she said softly, biting her lip between words to hold back the tears welling up in her eyes. "Edmund's harmless, they could let him go to the countryside where Susan is, nobody would have to know."

Peter didn't answer; he just looked very grave and seemed to be avoiding her eyes a little bit.

"You sent him to the Lone Islands, don't they have to let him go there?"

"Lucy, the islands will never accept him as an ambassador after what he's been accused of. They are all already aware of his charges-and they've never even met him."

"Oh, Aslan," wept the little queen, placing her face into her hands. "We've done nothing...we only kissed once..."

Peter arched an eyebrow.

Blushing in spite of everything, Lucy opened her fingers, peering at her elder brother through them, realizing that he might not have known that bit of information until she'd volunteered it.

"Lucy," he said, realizing something, "this didn't happen on the night before...before the drawbridge incident?"

Swallowing hard, she nodded. "We went to a hill to see the eclipse and my son-I mean, Prince Rilian, thought we...but we didn't...Ed would never, neither would I."

"That was why he wanted to go away," Peter murmured, speaking more to himself than to Lucy. "That's why he needed my help."

"What's going to happen to him now?"

"I told you, I don't know." he moaned, glancing over his shoulder at the nearby sundial they had just passed. "We'd best go inside before your ladies have a fit."

Turning around and walking back towards the castle walls, her brother still at her side, Lucy asked, "Has Caspian said anything...about me?"

"Some," Peter admitted in a very withholding sort of voice.

"Is he still angry?"

"Oh, I can't say."

Lucy's brow crinkled. "You can't tell whether or not the king is angry?"

"No," chuckled Peter, bitterly. "I literally can't say. The rotten royal counsel made me sign something."

Lucy forced a weak smile. "What about Rilian?"

"Same."

"I wish one of them would send for me...I think about them a lot..." her eyes drifted over towards the open doorway they were coming to. "Especially as the hours go by...I feel so stupid, Peter, waiting here, like I've let everyone down without lifting a finger. It's all slipping away; everything our parents wanted for me, everything the king wanted from me, everything I might have had if someone had given me a choice. It's all drifting. There's no justice here anymore, just loss."

"I know what you would have done if you'd been given a choice." Peter added quietly.

"You do?" asked Lucy, intrigued by his response. "What would I have done?"

"It would be treason to say you wouldn't have married the king," said Peter, diplomatically.

She pursed her lips in confusion for a moment, not understanding what he meant, until she noticed his eyes shifting for the slightest passing second down to the dagger pendant hanging from the seed-pearls around her neck. It figured Peter would be the only one to know who the necklace was from.

"I really miss him." Lucy admitted, wiping her nose with the back of her wrist.

The ladies-in-waiting who had over-heard her saying that all assumed, not knowing about the dagger pendant and not quite involved in the conversation enough to have caught Peter's subtle drift, that Queen Lucy had meant the king. Some thought her repentant, and for the sake of her youth and harmlessness loved her as their queen again, resolving to be less hard on her. Others believed her, without reason, to be a liar. They did not approve of her. The truth, however, was that she had not, just then, meant the king at all.

Sometime that evening, four or five members of the royal guard-one of them a faun, the others human-sat on duty in the dungeon area, playing cards in the pus-coloured light of a poorly maintained oil lamp. At least one of them was convinced that _somebody_ in the group had to be cheating, but since no one appeared to be winning steadily enough, and what with the rum light and all that, it was hard to say for sure who the culprit was.

"Are you cheating?" the most squinty-eyed of the group demanded of the faun at last, noticing that he had won the last round, though not the eight before it.

"_I_ am," one guard mumbled to himself, "and I'm still losing. I haven't won a round yet! I hate rummy!"

"We're playing poker!"

"We are?"

"I thought this was crazy eights!" cried the faun in dismay.

"Does this mean I win?"

"Go fish!"

"Huh?"

"Wrong game!"

"Oh, sorry."

"Your cards are facing the wrong way, you dolt, I can see them all!"

"Dreadfully sorry,"

"Perhaps we should look into taking up chess again."

"And have sixteen prisoners leering at me through the bars, plotting to steal the gold and silver and marble chessmen? I think not!"

"This is boring, I hate dungeon duty, when's supper?"

"Nothing ever happens!"

Suddenly their whining was interrupted by a loud scream from one of the prisoners, making them all jump in their seats, glancing at each other as if to say, "Who just willed that to happen?"

Nevertheless, they all stood up and went over to the cell the cry had come from. They were probably all wondering if it was a trick, yet they figured that they were match enough for one prisoner if he attempted an escape. And the scream had sounded genuine, not put-on.

"It's that blasted nobody, Edmund Philippe, I think." said the guard who had thought they were playing rummy. "This is his cell, is it not?"

"Is he hurt?"

"Someone open the door and find out."

"Get behind me, all of you, in case the traitor tries anything when we open the door." The one who was under the impression that they'd been in a game of go fish ordered.

When they opened the door, they peered anxiously around the dark cell and called, "Hi! You in there! What's amiss?"

The face that glanced up at them from the bunk was very, very white-the sort of discolouring that comes only from serious ailments, but they told themselves it might just be a trick of light. It wasn't too unusual for a prisoner to look like he'd been to the underworld and back, living in the dark day after day.

"I'm all right," the former knight's weak voice answered them, sounding dazed and uncertain, panting wearily. "It was just a bad dream. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"He sounds unwell," the faun whispered to the guard nearest him. "Do you suppose he's taken sick?"

"Get him an extra blanket and a hot-water bottle, he'll be fine. He's only had a nightmare, nothing worse."

"Look at the way he's lying in his bunk...he looks unbalanced...he might fall right off."

"That's not our problem if he does."

An hour later, they heard a loud thump coming from Edmund Philippe's cell. At first they did nothing, waiting absently for the expected sound of the former knight pulling himself up with a light grunt, the faint echo of his boots scraping against the hard floor. But they heard nothing. And as three minutes, five minutes, ten minutes slipped by without a single noise, they became worried.

"Edmund Philippe?" The cell door opened for the second time that night.

No answer.

"Edmund Philippe?"

Nothing.

"There he is!" said the one guard who had been bright enough to carry a lantern in there with him, pointing to the corner near the inscription about Aslan's mercy.

Edmund was lying perfectly still on the floor, one side of his face pressed to the ground, sweat dripping down his pale forehead.

The faun wandered over to him and touched his cheek lightly. "Oh, by the Lion!"

"What is it?"

"He's burning with fever! He_ is _ill."

"I wouldn't be surprised if this place had the bloody plague," muttered the guard who had admitted to cheating earlier.

"What do we do?"

"Call King Caspian-he'll tell us what to do with him."

"We can't leave him here," said the faun. "If he were any other prisoner..."

"He's a traitor, we're not at liberty to take him out of his cell without consent from either the king or his son."

"We don't have time to wait for the king; he could be in a meeting and the prisoner could die before he gets here."

"Would make the king's life easier, he wouldn't have to execute him."

"Someone fetch Prince Rilian at once," said the faun, ignoring that last comment.

As luck would have it, King Caspian was not in a meeting; he was in the courtyard for a late night stroll, his son at his side, when a messenger came running over, announcing that Edmund Philippe had taken ill in prison.

Rilian suggested they do nothing, but his father shook his head, putting a slightly reproving hand on his son's shoulder, and told the guards to bring the boy to a guest chamber. "Give him as much water as he'll drink, if he can keep it down, and then send for the physician. I myself will be along shortly."

"Your Majesty, what are the guards in panic about?" Sir Peter, walking along with a few other courtiers (the ones who didn't dislike him) when he heard some loud whispering between the king and the guards' messenger.

King Caspian swallowed hard. "Sir Peter, I will tell you something, as you are one of my most loyal knights, but you will not breathe a word of this to your sister, lest you fall out of my favor for ever, do you understand?"

Peter nodded, a tightening feeling in his chest beginning-as if it knew before he did that it was something horrid.

"Edmund Philippe is very ill...he's gotten some sort of fever...we don't want to frighten the court, nor the other prisoners, so we are going to keep this as quiet as possible. In the meantime, I will see to it that he is nursed back to health."

Shutting his eyes, Peter muttered, "Oh, Aslan."

"Remember, not a word of this to the queen."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Good man," Caspian sighed, walking away, signaling for Rilian to follow.

"You heard the King, Pevensie." said a fellow knight, one who was none too fond of Peter-always having been a little jealous of him and his rank-after over-hearing Caspian. "If you tell Queen Lucy, you go down."

"Shut up, what do you take me for?" Peter scowled at him.

"I daresay, even telling that wife of yours, Lady Susan, in a letter would almost amount to...hmm, treason?"

"He's her brother, and she is away in the countryside, who would know? Besides, you speak as if treason was anything the king decided it to be, on a whim." Glowering hard, Peter put his hand on his sword hilt protectively.

"It could be," he replied coolly.

"No, it really couldn't."

"You love your wife, don't you?"

Peter furrowed his brows. "What kind of stupid question is that?"

"Would be a pity if a little bird chirruped in his Majesty's ear about the fact that she hasn't been called in for questioning...and that...arrow..."

The blood drained slowly from Peter's face. "How do you know about that?"

"My uncle was the man who's arm she injured that night," said the wicked knight smugly, knowing he had Peter right where he wanted him. "But I don't want to say anything; I don't want to see that pretty woman's neck on the block."

Peter let go of his sword hilt and grabbed onto the front of the knight's tunic. "If you say anything..."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, remember you want to be on my good side."

"What do you want from me?" demanded Peter, speaking through gritted teeth.

"Because I'm so wonderfully generous and understanding, I give you two options." he said slowly, in a slimy-sounding tone.

"One, you leave court without telling anyone, your sister and her pathetic little traitor of a lover included, sending a letter of resignation and retirement from knighthood and the army to King Caspian in the post. And you never show your face in court again. Ever. Or your lovely wife's treason comes to light."

Ever so slowly, feeling like he was drowning, Peter loosened his grip on his enemy's tunic. "What's the other option?"

"You testify against your sister and your brother-in-law, and you join in the rebellion against the queen, with those of us meaning to replace her."

At this, Peter very nearly threw up. "What rebellion?"

"Caspian wants to keep Lucy as queen, but some of us are working against that. Join us or leave court for ever, the choice is yours. Oh, but make it tonight, your current presence is irritating me greatly, makes me think of my poor injured uncle...perhaps I will bring it up to the king in a few hours."

That night, left with no choice, feeling torn in half between saving his sister and saving his wife, Peter quietly loaded a carriage, got two horses ready, and went back to his manor in the countryside. As the journey progressed, he wept for sheer hatred. Hatred of the rebellion, hatred of the notion of treason, and hatred of himself for abandoning his sister who he had loved above all others. Alone and soon to be without title, soon to return to his wife having to confess his failure to rescue their siblings, he shed bitter tears.

**AN: That's all for now...Please review.**


	17. Setting The Chessboard

The arched alleyway-like coach and carriage side entrance at Cair Paravel had two corners that went further inward-deeper marble and brick panels-than their matching parallel counterparts did. The one was fairly bathed in moonlight; anyone standing close to it at all would be seen at once. The other fell into the shadows, and it would have taken more than a double-take before you noticed the cloaked figure lurking there. He was gloating, although, of course, no observer would have been able to know this since his hood was pulled half-way over his eyelashes.

Another figure, uncloaked, stood almost directly on the line between the silvery moonlight and the purple-black shadows, half of him gleaming very white while the rest of him, because of the lighting, looked grayish.

"I told you we would soon be rid of him," said the half-gray man. Behold! He was the very same knight who had threatened Peter into leaving Cair Paravel, the nephew of the drawbridge guardsman.

The cloaked figure grinned and slowly lifted up his eyes and the corner of his hood. It was Lord Sopespian. "Excellent."

"Sir Peter will never testify against his sister," said the knight, smiling with wicked pride; "but he would not let his wife come to harm, either."

"I have to say, when Lord Glozelle told me he didn't wish to take the queen he'd helped place on the throne to begin with out of power, and I had to manipulate matters so that he was demoted to a general and thus couldn't stand in my way-not to mention having to blackmail my old comrade left and right to keep him from letting our private conversations reach the king's ears before the rebellion could be set in motion-I was reluctant to take on a new partner. Especially one demanding such a graciously-sized request of favors in return-no offence to your extravagant taste-but I see now that I made the right choice."

"That was nothing," laughed the knight, rolling his eyes. "Trust me, it was the mere tip of the ice-burg."

"And of course it doesn't hurt to have the man who did this to me-" Lord Sopespian stepped into the lighted corner, his hood still raised so that one could see the fine black eye he had "-out of the way."

"Well, there is one matter that still puzzles me greatly, Lord Sopespian." said the knight, sounding, as his words implied, confused.

"What's that?"

"Your plan of slipping an illness-inducing poison into the former Sir Edmund's goblet before it was taken down to the dungeon was easy enough to proceed with; but now that we've got ourselves a sick traitor, what exactly are we going to do with it?"

"We let the illness run its course," said Lord Sopespian, an evil gleam in his eyes. "Then we use him like a pawn in the game of chess that is our lovely court here at Cair."

"How?"

"You'll see."

With that, Lord Sopespian walked away, back through the castle doors. No one else was up at this ungodly hour, so he slipped in undetected. And so did the knight who hated Peter, a few minutes later.

Queen Lucy knew nothing of this conversation, nothing of her brother's departure as of yet, and of course nothing at all about the rebellion. All the poor disgraced young wife knew was that her husband, the king of Narnia, had been very angry with her, made her spend a night or so in a dungeon, and then had been good enough to take mercy on her-allowing her to return to something resembling a regular series of chambers. She felt his love-for sparing her the ultimate punishment-but she also felt his distance-his never coming to see her and not even once bothering to send for her-just as keenly. And while she knew it was a betrayal of mind, something unlawful, maybe even downright wrong, Lucy still wished to hear news of Edmund. Which was a pleasure, like all else ruined, that seemed would never be hers again. At least, she had thought, Peter was there for her, permitted to come and see her. But when he never returned, she wondered if he-her dear brother-had forgotten her, too.

Maybe that was it; perhaps she and her bitter ladies-in-waiting had all been forgotten as if they had never been there. Wouldn't it be so strange if it ended up like that story of the princess who was in a tower for seven years, under a king's command, only to finally run out of food, having to dig out with her bare hands? And then what would there be to find? That there had been another queen and other ladies in her place for years and years until Narnia had been taken over? Well, no, that was all rot, wasn't it? Aslan wouldn't let Narnia get taken over; and Caspian, even if he was still angry with her, hadn't stopped sending Trufflehunter at least once a day, though the badger never did bring any direct message from his Majesty.

I'm being silly, thought Lucy, glumly, and horribly lacking in sensibleness-I must be going mad. I know it must be so, I simply know it, because I don't sound like myself anymore-I sound like Lady Susan Philippe, with all this talk of good-sense. Even my own deepest thoughts don't sound like me right now. I wonder if I've lost myself.

The doors opened and Trufflehunter the badger came waddling on in, his rhythm less somber than usual, almost joyful, making Lucy's sprits rise a bit. There was a letter in the badger's paw; a letter with the official royal Lion-head-shaped seal on it. That had to mean it was from her husband, from the king himself.

Sure enough, "A letter from the king, Your Majesty."

Light gasps escaped from the ladies-in-waiting and the chambermaids as they flocked to their queen's side, with more liveliness and vigor than Lucy had seen in them since her return from the dungeon.

Excitedly, Lucy tore the seal off, not bothering with saving the envelope (perhaps that means I'm still myself after all, she thought), and read the letter once very quickly. Her brows lowered themselves and her lips pursed with confusion. The contents were very puzzling. The writing itself was puzzling, too, actually. It was, to some extent, written almost like a letter that would have been given to her before she was accused of treason-but it lacked a little of the warmth. And yet, what it said was the most curious thing of all. It seemed as though Caspian intended to let her leave these enclosed chambers at last; but how could she be sure? All that royal gibberish and fancy-speak didn't help. Oh, if only he'd thought to write in a less official manner so that she could understand at least a word or two! Perhaps doing nothing but making samplers and sewing shirts and sitting idly and asking unanswered questions and getting glares day in and day out had made her stupid.

"What do you suppose it means?" Lucy asked one of her younger, brighter-eyed ladies-in-waiting, one of the few who's glares seemed less sharp and who appeared to have knowledge of things that weren't merely tea-time etiquette.

The little lady-for she was rather short in stature, almost as small as the queen herself-took the letter in her hands, read it, smiled widely with all her teeny pearly teeth showing, and cried out, "Oh, Lion bless the king!"

Another lady read it over her shoulder. "He's forgiven the queen, we're free! Oh, bless his mercy!"

If that's what he meant to say, why didn't he just say it? Lucy thought irritably, flinching as a fly buzzed by, hovering a few inches away from the tip of her nose.

"Don't you see?" said the eldest of the ladies, unable to stop grinning. "The king has invited you to a masque, courtiers from other countries will be there-they'll all see you at his side and know that he's forgiven you. Don't you understand? King Caspian is not going to send you away, nor is he going to keep us here under house-arrest any longer."

"We'll all travel again!"

"Dancing and picnics!"

"New gowns? Surely if there's a ball we all get new gowns?"

"The letter does dictate an allowance to call in the royal tailor, but he doesn't say if it's just for the queen or also for all of us."

"Your Majesty," they appealed to Lucy, their eyes shinning eagerly.

She didn't care so much about new clothes as they did; if she could have given them all her pretty dresses and crowns and necklaces, she would have. All except the seed-pearls with the dagger, of course. Still, she was very pleased that Caspian was sending for her, that some of his anger had evidently subsided.

"My brother," said Lucy, after a pause, choosing for the moment to ignore the garment-scavenger ladies-in-waiting, appealing to Trufflehunter. "Is he coming?"

The badger looked very different all of a sudden-if he was a human person, he might have blushed from embarrassment. Animals don't blush half so often, or so easily, as humans do. "I was told, Your Grace, that Sir Peter has returned to his manor in the country."

Lucy felt her eyes welling up with tears. "He didn't even come to say goodbye,"

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," said the badger.

"Never-mind your brother, Your Grace!" said a lady. "Your problems are over; the court will show mercy, we all will be freed from shame, and there will be dancing! It's been so long since we had dancing."

The little lady who had read the letter before the rest, the one Lucy didn't think was quite so awful as the others, reached out as if she wanted to pat the queen's shoulder, though she only touched the air around it, and said, "I'm sure your brother had something to do with your being freed, Milady, everyone knows he spoke well of you even after..." her voice trailed off but then quickly picked up again; "...I'm sure he must simply have thought you would be quite well now and presumed to return to the countryside while you settled back into a comfortable court life."

Those words explained nothing, nor were they as comforting as they were meant to be, but Lucy sensed the honesty-something the others lacked, only liking their her now because they were all to return to the hustle bustle of courtly life they'd been groomed for, wasting with the imprisoned little queen all this time-so she muttered a thank you.

Now, naturally, the reader may be wondering how Edmund was holding up. Well, he had been, as King Caspian ordered, removed from his cell and taken to a guest chamber where he could rest. He seemed to respond well to the medicine the physician gave him, while still having occasional bouts of sweat, stomach pains, and hallucination-related nightmares that he might wake up crying from.

The former knight didn't say much when he wasn't in pain, he was rather quiet, just sort of sitting there. Sometimes Caspian wondered if he even ought to bother locking the door when he left, seeing as Edmund didn't seem to plan on going anywhere; but castle policy was castle policy. It wouldn't have looked right leaving a traitor-even a sickly one-in a room with an open door.

Upon locking the door and turning to walk down the corridor after going in to check on Edmund's progress, Caspian found himself face-to-face with a small group of courtiers, Lord Sopespian among them.

"Sire," he bowed, glancing up at the king with pretend-modesty, hiding a smirk.

"Greetings, Lord Sopespian," said Caspian. "Did you want something?"

"Actually, Sire, I came to speak to you on the matter of the royal visitors from the Lone Islands coming for the masque."

"Yes, what about them?"

They turned a corner, finding their way into another corridor, the other courtiers tagging along a few steps behind them.

"I was informed that they wished to occupy the guest chambers in the south wing."

Caspian looked very hard at him, his brows sinking. "I received no such notice. Besides, Edmund is in the south wing."

"He's a traitor, Your Grace. Can you not just move him to another location? Perhaps the small chamber near the northern ballroom would suffice?"

"Why that one?" asked Caspian. "We never put anyone in that chamber-it's a bit cramped."

"It is still better than a cell," said Lord Sopespian dryly. "More than he deserves, I daresay."

"True," Caspian agreed. "But surely the visitors from the Lone Islands wont take all of the rooms."

"Your Majesty is forgetting Prince Rabadash of Calormen and his most recent mistress, the Tarkheena Lasaraleen."

"Wait a minute," Caspian scowled, recalling the smug ass of a prince who did nothing but whine, brag, and drink, and the tittering tarkheena that never stopped talking her whole head off. "Who invited _them_?"

"They sort of invited themselves when they heard we were having a masque," replied a courtier rather timidly. "We were a little scared to say no."

"It really is all for the better, my king." Lord Sopespian said. "Think how gracious you will look, your wife pardoned and repentant, and you still powerful and in control of your kingdom. Your traitor locked up...it will be good to show you as strong again-Narnia without a blemish. Calormen won't mock us if they see our strength."

"Well spoken, Lord Sopespian." Caspian nodded. "So be it."

Falling back as the king and the rest of the courtiers walked out of ear-shot, the knight who had blackmailed Peter into leaving court whispered to Lord Sopespian, "But if the traitor is roomed so close to where the masquerade is going to be held, isn't there a greater chance of the queen finding him? And if the visiting countries' representatives were to see them together after Queen Lucy had been pardoned-"

Letting his smirk spread freely across his face now, Lord Sopespian cocked his head and nodded.

"Oh!" said the knight, his eyes shinning with admiration.

"Who would have thought a treasonous pawn could put a king in checkmate?" sighed Lord Sopespian.

"What of Edmund's illness?" pondered the knight.

"I told you, it will merely run its course as the poison goes through his bloodstream. It wont kill him. The traitor will die with his head rolling off the block, not from sickness."

**AN: PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW.**


	18. What Happened During the Masque

Lucy's gown for the masque was made of rich, smooth velvet in a dark shade of purple, and there was real gold thread sewn into her bodice and around the hemming of the skirt. Her royal-blue under-shift was embroidered with little pale-cream-coloured rosebuds around the collar.

As they had so desperately hoped for, all the ladies-in-waiting got new gowns, too, though barely a handful of them actually deserved such a treat. For a fleeting moment Lucy had had a vision of her ladies wearing her hand-me-downs, which were very fine, but much too small for them, and giggled. When they asked her what was so funny, she shook her head and said nothing.

All the same, the little queen secretly wished she had someone around who she liked enough to share even her strangest thoughts with. Of course, to her everlasting shame, it was Edmund who came to her mind first; but she did think of Caspian afterwards. Back when he'd liked her, when he still trusted her, the king used to like to hear what she had to say. Sometimes she would say something at supper that made him laugh. With all that had happened, she hadn't realized how much she missed that-making her husband grin when he seemed a little down. She couldn't help but wonder if she would ever do that again; if he would ever like her again. Innocence had its limits; even the young lady who had once been Lucy Pevensie of the Lantern Waste knew that some things, when they were lost, could never be regained.

There seemed no real point in wearing a mask since everyone would know she was the queen. Everybody in court-and out of it-knew that the queen was smaller than everyone else at court and that the king was far taller than most of his subjects, except for Prince Rilian and Sir Peter. But they were both fair-haired and light-skinned while their king was dark-headed and olive-coloured, so there was no chance of their being mistaken for anyone else. Besides, Peter wouldn't be there to begin with, still at his manor in the countryside with his wife. At any rate, however, Lucy was, for the look of the thing, given a golden mask with white ermine (not _talking _ermine, of course) fur around the edges. It was the sort you hold in front of your face by a little hand-pole, rather than the kind you strap around the back of your head by a string or thread.

King Caspian wore a plum-coloured tunic with a gold shoulder-chain around it; a small charm in the shape of a Lion-head dangling from the left, two inches or so away from the centre. His mask, if he had chosen to put it on, was gray felt with silver and gold around the eye-holes. Prince Rilian wore similar clothes, only his were all in blacks and earth-tone browns, clashing dramatically against his bright yellowish hair. His mask was ebony-and-silver, strapping at the bottom of his chin like a riding-helmet.

"Your Majesty," said Lord Sopespian, approaching the king, noticing that he looked ready for the festivities, save for the dark, tired circles around his eyes.

"Yes, Lord Sopespian?"

"The guests are arriving,"

"I've moved Edmund Philippe's accommodations," Caspian assured him somewhat absently, unawares; "the Lone Islanders can go to the south wing chambers to freshen-up if that is their wish."

"Ah, yes, the Prince Rabadash and Tarkheena Lasaraleen have arrived as well."

Caspian winced involuntarily. "How do they look to you?"

"Young," said Lord Sopespian, dryly. Courtly manners prevented him from saying much else, even though, in spite of his wickedness, he rather disliked the prince of Calormen himself. It is a funny fact of life, that wicked people can use other wicked or stupid people, equally as horrid as they themselves are, and yet still hate them all along; never letting their true emotions show until the last minute when the fools find they can no longer use each other to accomplish anything beyond that point.

"I see," replied the king bleakly, picturing the young pair-one glowering, impossible-to-please prince who thought he ruled the world, and one silly little woman who thought he was simply seraphic in spite of the fact that all evidence proved Rabadash to be anything but.

"I trust the traitor's room is properly locked?"

"Oh," Caspian went slightly red in the face, feeling a little ashamed. "Something was the matter with the lock itself-broken in half, it looked like-but he's not going anywhere."

"Tis a dangerous thing to be as trusting as you are, my king," sighed Lord Sopespian. "I may be speaking out of line, but if it were my prisoner, a man who'd betrayed me and the country I ran, I would strap him to the bed before I left anything up to his character."

"I've spared him the threat of the axe, not to mention allowed him to regain his health," said Caspian; "I'm sure if nothing else, I have gained his gratitude. He's...he's not a bad young man, Lord Sopespian...just a foolish, foolish boy who made a costly mistake. He may yet mend."

"So you keep saying," was the reply, "but time will tell all."

"I am not wrong," the king was certain.

"Of course not, your Majesty," Lord Sopespian agreed in an official, edged-voiced manner.

"Father," said Rilian, coming up to them from the other side of the corridor, "the queen has arrived in the ballroom with her ladies."

"See that you treat her with respect, my son." Caspian warned him, giving the prince a look that suggested they'd had a talk earlier.

Rilian looked sullen for a moment. "She's not-"

"She is my wife," said Caspian, having the final word on the matter.

"Yes, Father, that she is."

"And?"

"And my stepmother," he admitted sulkily.

The king put a hand on his son's shoulder. "If I have forgiven her, what right do you-not her husband, but her devoted son who ought to stand by her through thick and thin-have to hold anything against her?"

"_Step_son," Rilian said quickly. Then adding, "But yes, you're right."

"How is the wrist?" Caspian asked, glancing down at the fine gash Edmund had given the prince the night he and Lucy had jumped the drawbridge.

"Healing," said the prince, shrugging his shoulders.

"Very good." Caspian nodded at his son and Lord Sopespian, signaling that he was ready to go into the ballroom and see his queen again for the first time since her disgrace.

As they entered the threshold of the room, Tarkheena Lasaraleen burst into tears, and sobbed, "You don't love me, my d-d-dear prince, you only love that stupid, milk-faced cow!" loudly at Prince Rabadash before fleeing, grabbed a roll out of the nearest refreshment table's bread-basket, and then ran off wailing dramatically at the top of her voice.

Caspian looked over at one of his courtiers, a squire to a middle-aged knight, who had been present at the masque the whole time, and asked, "Why did the Tarkheena just run out crying into a croissant?"

The squire took a moment, pretending to deeply reflect, as if trying to remember exactly what had gone amiss. Really, he was trying not to laugh, knowing Prince Rabadash-who was already in a sour mood-would notice, take offence, and cause a row as likely as not.

Finally he managed, "It seems that his Highness, the prince of Calormen, was hoping to see Lady Pevensie, Sir Peter's wife, and voiced his disapproval at learning she was not going to be attending rather loudly. Evidently, the Tarkheena does not find Lady Susan to be half so pretty as she is said to be. The prince insisted Sir Peter's wife was the most beautiful woman in the world, which, needless to say, offended his mistress, causing her great distress." Being a tactful young chap, the squire chose to leave out some fresh, borderline-lustful comments regarding Sir Peter's wife that Rabadash had made a few moments before, and the fact that he also-while giddy on spiced wine-called her a black-hearted daughter of a dog being tamed by a man unworthy of breaking her in.

The king rolled his eyes. Prince Rabadash's fascination with Sir Peter's wife was nothing new; he was an unstable, horrible, selfish man. His brooding and seething over the fact that Lady Susan was not only married, but _loyally_ married, unwilling to ever become one of his mistresses (for he would have much rather have had her than Lasaraleen, his second choice), was not exactly shocking.

"King Caspian!" cried Rabadash, smiling with all his teeth, barely noticing that his mistress had fled, figuring-perhaps rightly-that since he was a prince he'd just give her jewelry from the royal treasure stores later, and she would be pacified. If he decided he even wanted the bother of having her again to begin with, that was.

"Prince Rabadash," said Caspian in greeting, trying-and failing-not to speak through his teeth. "Welcome to Cair Paravel."

The prince took an aggravatingly long swig from the wineglass in his right hand and said, "Ahhhhhh!" about a dozen times.

Caspian willed himself not to scream, slowly edging himself over to the other side of the ballroom. He could see Queen Lucy there, looking very sweet in her new gown, peering over at him, wondering when he was going to speak to her.

Before he could reach her, Rabadash tugged drunkenly on his sleeve and slurred, "My good king, when is Sir Peter returning to court?"

"I had not known you were so terribly fond of him, Your Highness." said Caspian, a hint of humour playing around the corners of his mouth; which of course the dim-witted prince did not pick up on.

"I'm not," said Rabadash, a little sullenly. "When does he return?"

"He doesn't," replied King Caspian. "I received his letter requesting early retirement in the post this morning-he expresses no wish to return to court, nor to fight in battles any longer."

"Good for nothing nobleman," muttered Rabadash, glad to have something to pick on Sir Peter about.

"He served me well," Caspian stood up for Peter, "even if he now leaves court for good. It is no matter, I trust the man, I know he must have a reason."

"Bah," said Rabadash, making a rude noise by smacking his dark, coffee-coloured lips together. Then he took another sip of wine and smiled at a passing lady-in-waiting of the queen who blushed and waved a little silver fan in front of her face batting her eyelashes at him.

Now's my chance to get away from this man, thought Caspian, fast-walking just slowly enough so that it couldn't technically be called running, making his way towards Queen Lucy.

Lucy had been taking everything in, nearly breathless as she stood her ground, aware that the courtiers were all looking at her-some with forgiveness, others with scorn. They were all pleasant enough, knowing full-well that the queen was more or less back in Caspian's favor again; and as he was their ruler, they were required to respect his consort.

It was funny to think, Lucy couldn't help realizing just then, that when she had first arrived at court as the king's young bride the nobles had been warm towards her, thinking her the most darling, innocent little queen they could have ever wanted. Now that they believed she'd done something wrong, yet were forced to accept her again by royal decree, their expressions were different. Their smiles were plastered on, courtly with no real warmth. The ladies-in-waiting didn't seem to notice this; they were too busy drinking in the joy of their freedom, no longer bound to a queen under house-arrest.

I wonder, thought the little queen, is Caspian going to be the same?

She could see her husband talking-a bit unwillingly-to that vile Prince Rabadash of Calormen. Then she watched as he finally got out of that unpleasant conversation and came towards her.

Poor Lucy was unsure of what she was supposed to do. Surely she loved him and was glad of his forgiveness, so she ought to thank him. But to thank him publicly, before everyone, regarding such a personal matter? That didn't sound right. She may have gotten a good many things wrong about court life, but only a complete fool would be half-witted enough not to realize that the whole court was trying to pretend that things were now as they had always been. And that wasn't part of the masque.

Besides, she would have felt sort of fake and untrue thanking him directly when she hadn't actually done what he thought she did. Yes, she had been alone with Edmund. Yes, she had kissed him. But Lucy knew she hadn't gone further than that; and she hated that no one-except Peter, and maybe Susan-believed her. Other than secretly meeting the knight who had once been her best friend back in the western woods, what reason had she given them to think she was sneaky and dishonest? All that had happened, well it looked pretty bad, but didn't anyone listen? Didn't anyone want to think she maybe-just maybe-was mostly innocent?

'Mostly' because she did feel things for that former knight. Even right then and there at the masque her thoughts were sometimes drifting away from her fear about her husband to how Edmund was getting on. The seed-pearls were still around her neck. What she had felt that morning on the hill...she knew she hadn't been making that up...or fooling herself...it was real...wrong, she knew, but real.

The king was before her now.

Upon wobbly knees, her face gone white and her chin shaking, Lucy sank into a deep curtsey; looking down, then-ever so slowly-up at her husband to take in his expression. At least, she could admit with a clear conscience, at that moment she hadn't been thinking about Edmund at all-only Caspian.

There was something vaguely hard and icy in his eyes; but the look softened as he took in how small and frightened she appeared, remembering why he had forgiven her to begin with. His little queen; his poor, sweet little queen. Aslan bless her-she was so young, she could still learn. In truth, the king still loved her, all the more reason to stand up and show his Lucy the gift of mercy.

King Caspian took Queen Lucy's hand and kissed it lightly, wrapping his fingers around the back of her cold-to-the-touch, trembling hand. "It is good to see you, Wife, I've missed you."

Speechless, Lucy swallowed hard and nodded weakly. She was afraid that if she tried to speak, she might just cry.

The king seemed to understand this and did not press her for a reply, rather, he took her hand and introduced her very solemnly to the royal visitors from the Lone Islands. Tarkheena Lasaraleen had not come back yet, and there was no point in having her formally meet Prince Rabadash seeing as he was too busy shooting off Calormene swears peppered with threats-some nonsense about the 'bolt of Tash'-at a nobleman who had bumped into him, causing the hot-tempered prince to drop his wineglass onto the floor, where it broke with a light, almost musical-sounding trickle; so they danced to a few short songs for the look of the matter. A king and queen not dancing at a masque they themselves were supposed to be hosting would have seemed odd.

There was an unspoken awkwardness between the two; and though Lucy knew she had his forgiveness, she could tell quite plainly that in his eyes she was no longer the precious little wife who could do no wrong. He was as kind and polite as ever, his smiles every bit as considerate-save a bit forced, but that air of mild distrust still stood its ground.

I wonder, Lucy thought, if he ever will believe me-even years from now-when I tell him that Ed and I weren't together as they think we were.

After those few songs had ended, there was no more dancing; interest had waned a good deal on both sides. There wasn't much worthwhile conversation going on at the feasting tables (one noble tried to stuff a pickle up his nose, which was mildly amusing, but nothing beyond that). Rilian _did_ call her 'mother' however close together his teeth had been when he said it, which she appreciated, having missed her stepson almost as much as her husband.

Mustering up her courage, Lucy tapped Caspian lightly on the shoulder.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

He was smiling, and his voice was tender-that was encouraging.

"I'm...I'm not feeling so well...do you think I could walk the corridors for a bit? I haven't seen them since..." Here her voice trailed off.

Caspian understood. "Yes, you may go, just don't stray too far off and remember to come back within the hour."

"Thank you," said Lucy, standing up and shaking a few crumbs off of the skirt of her velvet gown.

Unbeknownst to the little queen, Lord Sopespian grinned when he saw her get up, and nudged the elbow of the knight who had blackmailed her brother, Peter.

"Are you sure she'll find him?" whispered the knight, uncertainly.

"How can she possibly not?" said Lord Sopespian, beaming. "After all, the door's not even locked."

Sure enough, as Lucy strolled down the corridor, thinking things over, wondering how she was going to make it through this night and other future ones that would surely be just like it, she heard a sharp cry-nearly a scream-coming from a small chamber she was passing.

Wondering if perhaps one of the guests had hurt themselves, or else maybe a servant was in trouble, Queen Lucy put her hand on the doorknob and turned it quickly, peeking in.

It was mostly dark in there, but a candle on a nightstand shone brightly enough to reveal the slim outline of a young boy lying on the bed, his covers kicked to the floor. He was asleep and dreaming-nightmares, probably-and the scream must have come from him.

"Poor boy," murmured Lucy, coming closer. She found that he wasn't a little boy after all, rather, a young man, and-after three more steps towards the bed, her heart beginning to pound-she knew exactly who he was. "Edmund!"

He moaned in his sleep and his cheeks flushed a little bit, slightly moist with a light sweat.

As if it were the most natural thing in the world, Lucy climbed onto the bed beside him and lifted his head up into her lap, lightly moving a short lock of his dark hair that had curled like a ringlet and stuck to one of his temples away from his forehead.

Then, when he seemed to have relaxed, his breathing more comfortable and slow, she gently whispered, "Wake up,"

And, opening his eyes, seeing her hovering above him, he did indeed awaken; but he thought, at first, that he was dreaming still. For, you see, Edmund had seen Lucy Pevensie so many times in his dreams before-waking him up from his nightmares when his screams were not enough-that he cannot be blamed for thinking she wasn't really there.

He waited for her to fade away, as she always did-yet she remained. There were little tears in her eyes, a half-smile in the right-hand corner of her lips, and her gaze was steadily fixed on him, unwavering.

"Lucy?" Edmund blinked twice.

"Are you all right?" asked Lucy, looking concerned. "You look awful. Where were you?"

"In the dungeon, mostly," said Edmund, sparingly. "Then there was another chamber before this one, I think."

"If I'd known where you were, I would have tried to come see you, but they wouldn't tell me anything."

"You would have done better not to ask about me at all, Lu, knowing what they think."

"I know," said Lucy as Edmund started to sit up, taking his head out of her lap; "I was just worried about you." She took in the weak colour of his face, even in the poor light, and winced. "I say, Edmund, have you been ill?"

"A little," he admitted monosyllabically.

"I thought about you so often," Lucy told him in a shaky, faltering voice.

"There were times when you came to mind," said Edmund, rather grimly.

Lucy got the sense that Edmund was trying not to be too friendly with her. Which was more than understandable, considering what their friendship had recently resulted in, but it still left her feeling empty. Everything was all wrong, however worse it could have turned out, it was painful all the same.

Noticing the pain written all over Lucy's face as she looked away from him, still sitting on the bed, seeming very much as though she was trying not to cry, the old promise made by the brook popped into Edmund's mind. His distance hurt her; he was going back on his word. How complicated these things could be!

Wearily, Edmund sighed and added, "But that was only whenever I was breathing."

Lucy looked back at him blankly, unsure of what to say. If she weren't a married woman and a queen, she would have kissed him. But she could hardly do that under the circumstances, even if they were alone. After all, the memory of the morning after the eclipse was sharp-she didn't want to put them both in danger again.

Another thought came to Edmund's mind; that of the first time they'd met each other in the apple orchard after he had been knighted. Lucy had asked him why he never answered her letters. Only right then, all this long while later, he realized he had yet to answer her. He wasn't sure if he even could, if he could possibly explain. Were there words to describe his emotions as he had read each thought she put to paper over and over again? What was more, even if he could make her understand, _should_ he? Perhaps it was better left an answered question. But, then, if something happened and he never saw Lucy again, could he stand knowing that he'd never even tried to tell her? He was no longer a knight, not really welcome at court, and she was a queen-the chances of them ever having another opportunity to talk were slim.

"I wish..." Lucy stammered, staring at her childhood companion's pale face intently, "...I wish things were different."

Edmund took a deep breath. "Nine thousand, nine hundred, and eighty-one."

The little queen's brow crinkled. "What?"

"That's how many words total were in the letters you wrote to me after you were taken away as a bride to be queen at Cair Paravel," Edmund touched the side of her arm once, very lightly, and then pulled away, leaving such a wide gap that at least two people and a dwarf could have sat comfortably between them. "I've counted them many times."

Lucy felt a shiver run up and down her spine, pulling herself closer to him, filling the gap.

"Lucy, I'm sorry, I just wanted you to know." Edmund reluctantly put his arm around her shaking shoulders to steady them.

"When did you know?" she asked quietly.

"Know what?"

"How you felt?" Her cheeks went very red.

"I can't say for sure...I realized it when my stepmother first told me you were getting married...but I think...I think...deep down...I knew before then."

"I miss the Lantern Waste," Lucy said; "and the lamppost, and the stone wall."

"We never had a chance, it's a shame." Edmund sighed.

Lucy's arms wrapped around his middle; and his other arm pulled her closer, holding her in a full-on embrace now.

"Ed?"

"Yes?"

"Are you scared?"

He paused, thinking for a moment. To tell the truth or to lie? What was the point of lying about it? "Yes."

"Were you this scared in Calormen...when you were at school there?"

This was something Edmund still never wanted to talk about, and yet he almost did want to tell Lucy-maybe just a little bit. "Sometimes; but in a different way. It's worse being scared here, knowing I lose you either way, that I lost you a long time ago. In Calormen, I was just afraid I would be beaten-and, well, I was."

"Did the guards ever beat you like that in the dungeon here?" she wanted to know; not sure if she would ever be able to forgive herself if they had. Edmund may have thought everything that happened was his fault, but Lucy wasn't convinced.

"No," said Edmund.

"Why did you count every word I wrote?"

"Don't you know?"

Lucy's chin quivered. "I think I can guess, Edmund, but I'm not sure why it's so."

"Lucy," he said, in his head trying to remind himself, even as he spoke to her as Lucy Pevensie, that it would be wrong to kiss her again-as much as he wanted to. "You saw something in me when I treated you like dirt, when I didn't want you...dear Aslan, I don't know what it was, but it made me want to be better, though I never told you that. I still to this day have no idea what you saw in me then."

"The peppermint," said Lucy, simply, as if it were obvious.

"You always did appreciate the simplest-seemingly meaningless-things. That's why I missed you and read your letters so many times-that's why I counted. Because you're smart, brave, understanding, sweet, beautiful, kind, everything I could never be, everything I wanted to try to be anyway, and-"

A small squeak escaped Lucy's throat as she leaned against Edmund's chest, resting in his arms, wishing she never had to leave them. "And I love you."

There it was. The question she hadn't wanted to answer; she'd answered it.

Unfortunately, she had unwittingly done so in front of the visitors from the Lone Islands, a drunk Prince Rabadash, Lord Sopespian, Prince Rilian, and her husband, King Caspian of Narnia. Suddenly they were all standing in the now-open doorway; all of them saw her and knew who she was with. And they'd all heard what the young woman who was supposed to be Narnia's queen, loyal to King Caspian, just said every bit as clearly as Edmund had.

**AN: Hey, um, nice reader peoples? I'm feeling a little down, so if any of you feel like trying to cheer a sad writer up, I think a review might make me feel better. **


	19. And What Happened Afterwards

**AN: Warning |!| one not so nice word (aka: Bastard) that may offend people used in passing-I don't usually use it in my stories, but it really couldn't be helped this time. Much like my occational use of the word "ass" (by which, in my stories, I never mean as a curse) this word, too, is not intended as a swear. But, if anyone wants to get on my case about it, I ask you to please remember first that this fanfic is rated T. **

"Behold your queen, Father," growled Rilian, bitterly, glaring at the two white-as-salt-faced figures in the bed, wrapped up in each other's arms.

For a split-second, Lucy could have sworn, even in the lousy, flickering candle's light, that she saw Lord Sopespian grin before forcing the corners of his lips down into a solid pout. Prince Rabadash was smiling, too, but that was because he was dead-drunk and quite giddy; one could seriously doubt if he even knew what he was seeing.

The Lone Islanders knew all too well, however, and-still believing the accusations against the queen from before-glanced over at King Caspian to see how he would deal with this treachery. Worse, none of them-Caspian included-had heard the whole conversation; only the last few words Lucy had said.

At first, Lucy could not will herself to look at her husband's face. She was too afraid of what she would see there. Rabadash was a perfect fool, Lord Sopespian a rotten human-being, the Lone Islanders little more than strangers, and Rilian, well, she had seen enough anger in him before to know what to expect to some degree, but with Caspian, it was different. His older, graver face-clearly upset-gave far less away than those of the others standing beside him.

"I warned you, Sire, when you insisted that we show them mercy and faith," said Lord Sopespian, "there would be consequences."

One of the Lone Islanders, who Lucy thought had a very nice face, and always regretted afterwards that she never had learned his name, said, "We can't accuse the Queen without proof."

"How long are we going to hide behind that excuse?" demanded Lord Sopespian. "Until she's carrying that traitor's bastard?"

Edmund had, while they were speaking, let go of Lucy, and she stumbled off of the bed and stood up, her knees weak and her eyes tear-filled, finally daring to look at her husband. Would he defend her? Would her realize she had never meant to hurt him? That she couldn't help how she felt about Ed, seeing as her fate had always seemed entangled with his from the first? His expression was so very tight, clearly laced with bitterness, but in a different way than Rilian's face was.

"Your Majesty," said Edmund, getting up, his cheeks damp again.

Quite unexpectedly, Caspian's fist shot out and stuck Edmund in the jaw, knocking him down back onto the bed.

Lucy gasped and her hands flew to her mouth.

The kind Lone Islander winced, but the rest showed no signs of even the mildest forms of pity.

"Take him back to the dungeon," ordered the king, his chest heaving with heavy breaths as he spoke slowly and dangerously. "The queen shall be escorted back to her recent chambers where she will change clothes and then someone will bring her to the throne room. There I will speak with her alone."

In all likelihood, Edmund would have feared for Lucy's safety and would have tried to fight to protect her as he had done the last time they had been caught in a bed together, but he was still weak from the illness-inducing poison, in spite of the fact that he was steadily recovering, and before he could stagger up off of the bed after being hit so hard, the guards had arrived and bound up his hands. At least he had some comfort in the fact that Caspian was going to speak to Lucy personally this time, hoping that she might be able to convince him of what they truly had-and had not-done, but he was still quite terrified. It must have taken a lot for Caspian to get a pardon for a so-called treasonous queen the first time; and the question was largely: would he be able to do so again? Would he even _want_ to?

Taking one last look at Edmund as he was hauled off, Lucy saw a dark bruise forming where Caspian had hit him, and felt like throwing up.

Rilian spat on Edmund as he was dragged passed and the queen, though she would never, felt the most compelling urge to smack him for doing that. How dare he! He didn't know; he didn't understand. True, Edmund had hurt Rilian's hand pretty badly that night they had jumped the drawbridge, and the prince was under the impression that the traitor was sleeping with his stepmother, but still. At least, somewhat to Lucy's relief, the prince didn't hit him. Spiting was a sign of disgrace; horrid to watch, sure; but not nearly as heart-wrenching as seeing the man she loved get hit twice in one night.

When the queen was taken back to the little white-walled rooms she had hoped never to have to live in again, her ladies-in-waiting all glared at her; their eyes shinning with fresh bouts of hatred. They said nothing, ready to help her undress and change into something less fancy, but it didn't take a genius to see that they all despised her now. Even the sweeter-natured ones looked liked they would be willing to carry her kicking and screaming to the scaffold if given permission.

"I can undress myself," Lucy told them quietly, fearing that they might 'accidentally' strangle her with a ribbon or lace her bodice up too tightly if she let them come too close. "You can leave me."

They curtsied stiffly, scowling all the while, and went into another of the sealed-off rooms, their gowns sweeping curtly behind them.

Little tears rolling down her face, Lucy tore the velvet gown off of her body and dropped it on the floor where it rested in a pathetic heap of gold and purple. Still in only her under-clothes, she wrapped one of her hands around the dagger-pendant, silently praying that the guards weren't hurting him.

All of her dresses were very fine, most of them fairly new, but Lucy finally managed to find something suitable, older and less elaborate, though it too was velvet. She hadn't worn it in a while; but it looked very familiar. As soon as she slipped it on, smoothing out the ruffled fabric and the slightly-torn bit of lace at the collar, the queen remembered what she had last worn it for. It was what she had been wearing the day she'd dubbed Edmund a knight of Narnia. Weary, her clothes tossed on but not yet properly laced and buttoned, Queen Lucy collapsed in a corner by the fireplace, pulled her knees to her chest, and wept harder still.

Then there was a knock and the sound of someone clearing their throat. Trufflehunter stood on the other side of her door, his recalling face the first one she had seen that was not angry with her, however grave and anxious it looked. He told her to come with him, leading her down the corridors which suddenly felt so cold and long (she could see her breath on the air and feel her heart beating like a drum).

Once she was at the throne-room doors, the badger bowed and left her.

Before she even knocked, Caspian knew she was out there. "Come in here and close the door behind you."

Lucy obeyed and pushed the door open, slowly walking in, looking for her husband. She finally found him standing with his back to her, his hands on a long desk-like oak table spread out with paperwork, official documents, and scrolls.

Remembering his orders, she shut the door behind herself and waited for him to speak.

"Do you have any idea what I went through to spare you?" he asked slowly, his voice stopping pointedly on each word. "Do you have any idea how hard I had to fight to save you from being sent away to spend the rest of your life in miserable confinement? You know, there were even those who wanted not only for you to be removed from being queen, but also your head on a pike. Do you have any notion of how difficult it was for me to go against them?"

Lucy stood trembling, her lips opened to speak, though she hardly knew what she was trying to say, but nothing came out.

The king turned and faced her now, his brow dangerously low. "Answer me."

She couldn't; her throat was dry, it hurt.

"Now, Lucy," said the king through his teeth.

"I-I'm sorry," stammered the little queen.

"You're sorry?" His glare hardened, his voice becoming much louder. "I went through unimaginable hardships to spare your life for no other reason than my respect and affection for you, and in return the moment you are free you go flying into that boy's arms declaring your love for him in front of officials whom I cannot politically handle seeing me as weak, and you're _sorry_?"

"I never meant to-"

"Stop defending yourself!" Caspian shouted, angrily sweeping a stack of papers and a very heavy tome off of the table. They fell to the floor with a _thud_. Lucy jumped involuntarily. "You are my wife, not his! Do you understand that?"

"Y-yes," she understood that only too well.

"Was there anything you ever asked for that I wouldn't give you?" he demanded in a tone that made it clear that the question was rhetorical. "I never treated you badly, I never did anything to hurt you. So why do you feel the constant need to betray me?"

"We never-" Lucy tried.

"You really expect me to believe that?" Caspian snorted in disbelief.

"Yes, because it's the truth," she insisted tearfully.

"The truth," said the king, shaking his head.

"Edmund Philippe is not a traitor, not like you think he is."

"If I were you," said Caspian, "I would not waste my time defending him, considering the dangerous situation you find your own self in."

"What about your first wife?" The words came out before Lucy could think clearly enough to stop them. "Wouldn't you have defended her?"

King Caspian looked like he'd been smacked across the face. "Don't you ever presume to drag _her _into this, Lucy. Never! Do you hear? She, at least, was a loyal wife. _She_ never gave me a moment of worry-she understood what was at stake."

"She loved you," said Lucy.

"And you don't?"

Lucy's tongue froze in her mouth. How was she supposed to answer that? How could she ever tell him, especially now, that although she did love him, as her kind, caring husband and as Narnia's king, it wasn't quite the same way she felt about Edmund.

"You realize what you've done, don't you?"

She said nothing, waiting for him to go on.

"Edmund Philippe will have to be sentenced to death."

"No!" cried Lucy, taking a step backwards.

"How do you expect me to save him now?" Caspian groaned impatiently, vexed at her surprise. "Didn't you know? You would be considered lucky to keep your own head after what happened."

"Don't kill him, please." Lucy pleaded, shaking all over. "Please."

The king closed his eyes. "Lucy, I am sorry, I know this pains you, but you brought this on yourself."

"He's innocent," insisted the little queen, tearfully.

"If by innocent you mean he was caught in bed with you upon two separate occasions, snuck out with you at night and took you to Aslan knows where, and knew how to get into your sleeping chambers without being seen, then yes, he is innocent." His tone was bitter and sarcastic. "I under-estimated him. I thought that after sparing his life I would gain, if not his affection, than at least his gratitude, enough that he wouldn't make the same stupid mistake again. Enough that I wouldn't find my wife in his arms. Foolish, I know, to expect a bit of loyalty. All the more so on the one night I needed to back up my decision to spare you both."

"Caspian, it wasn't like that," wept Lucy. "Please don't hurt him."

"That necklace you wear all the time," said Caspian, realizing she was wearing no other jewelry besides those seed-pearls with the dagger pendant she seemed to favor so greatly, "it's from _him _isn't it?"

She nodded.

"Take it off," he ordered.

"What?" Lucy's brows furrowed.

"You heard me, take it off."

Lucy's hand went protectively to the pendant.

"Obey me at once."

Her fingers trembled as they reached behind her neck and undid the clasp.

"Put it on the table."

Her neck felt so bare without it, she couldn't help realizing as she set it down, glancing over at Caspian who's rage had not subsided this time.

"Please don't let them kill him," she whispered, her fingers sliding away from the seed-pearls as slowly as possible.

"You must know I can do nothing, this isn't only a personal matter anymore-it's a political nightmare."

"Caspian-"

"You may leave me now," said the king, sighing deeply, flicking his fingers in a shooing motion.

"I-"

"_Now_, Lucy."

Jadedly, the little queen curtsied quickly and then left the throne room. She had nothing now. Her husband was furious with her; her seed-pearls and dagger pendant, held so dear, had been taken away; her country was in political shambles; her own life in possible danger; and, worst of all, Edmund was doomed. And Lucy could not imagine a world without Edmund. There was hardly world enough for a queen and a lover who was not her king; but, paradoxly, there simply _could _be no world for Lu without Ed living somewhere in it.

About three hours after his talk with Lucy, King Caspian went down into the dungeon-there was someone else involved in this matter that he also had to speak with. Even if it was the last thing in the world he wanted to do. After all, what man actually enjoys talking to his wife's lover?

When he arrived at the cell and stood in the open doorway, the king found Edmund crouched in the corner next to a small inscription about Aslan, winter, and mercy that had been there for a while.

"You, boy, get up!" Caspian ordered harshly.

Edmund turned around half-way, saw who had addressed him, stood up, and bowed. "Your Majesty,"

"What do you have to say for yourself?" Caspian demanded, his voice cracking, straining, and trembling as he spoke. "And don't you dare say 'sorry', I'll beat you black and blue and tear your lungs right out of your throat if you say that-I have heard enough of that."

Edmund blinked at him.

"Why do you not answer me?"

"I've no wish to have my lungs torn out, Sire."

His dark eyes flashing with anger, Caspian hurled the seed-pearl necklace with the dagger pendant at Edmund. "I believe this is yours."

The necklace struck him on the side of the face before falling to the hard ground of the cell with a faint _clink_. He winced from the brief, stinging pain, but did not react at all otherwise.

"Did it mean nothing to you, Edmund," said the king, his tone a bit softer now, "that I spared your life once? Did it mean nothing before that when you became one of my knights? You know, back then I would have considered you a friend as well as a subject."

Edmund fought the urge to say, "I'm sorry," thinking of the state of his lungs, wanting to keep them where they were. Somehow he did not doubt King Caspian's ability to tear him limb from limb if properly provoked.

"Why didn't you just kill me and take her, if you so wished to destroy my country? Would that not have been easier?"

"I wouldn't do that, Your Majesty," Edmund dared to say.

"But you would take my queen from right under my nose and make my country weak in the eyes of others," said the king, sourly.

"Even if I was the monster you seem to think I am, Sire, you know Lucy would never be with someone who harmed you. She's loyal to you."

Caspian scoffed bitterly. "No, Edmund Philippe, she is loyal to you-and _only _you. Or are you so blind you cannot see it?"

"It isn't," faltered Edmund, "as you think."

"I cannot make her happy," Caspian said, looking hurt as well as upset now; "no matter what I do, I can't make her happy. I am the bloody king of Narnia, anything she asks for is hers for the taking, but I can't make her happy. And you-you of all people-can? It's unbelievable."

"If you understood her, Your Majesty, you would see it was quite believable," said Edmund before he stopped to think about what he was implying.

"I am her husband," he said, glowering and folding his arms across his chest. "Who could understand her better?"

Edmund knew he daren't answer that.

"What is it she wants from you that I can't give her? You aren't anyone anymore, and if you saw how she reacts at the sound of your name-"

"I'm still me," said Edmund. "Title or no title, knighthood or no knighthood, I'm still myself."

"You're just a boy," Caspian pointed out sullenly.

"Forgive me, Sire." he lowered his head.

"I already had," the king answered tersely.

"I didn't mean spare me," clarified the former knight, "I meant forgive me."

Caspian nodded. "Maybe I will, someday."

"I know you would be appalled at my asking, but it's important-"

"What do you want?"

"A last request?"

"What is it?" sighed the king.

"Take care of Lucy, don't hurt her, and know she hasn't done you wrong." There were tears in Edmund's eyes as he asked for this.

"And what of the things I know?" asked King Caspian, coldly.

"Meaning?"

"I know the two of you were sneaking around."

"If that's what you want to believe," said Edmund, "tell yourself that. But I think, eventually, Sire, you'll know Lucy was innocent. No one will tell you any differently than they are telling you now, but you'll know. That is the Lion's mercy, I think I've figured it out, that he grants the king the ability to save his country, but also to see the truth in time. When the light is steady again and stops flickering-everyone will see."

Caspian's eyes drifted over to the little lamppost engraving Edmund had done before, shook his head, and left the prisoner alone with his thoughts once more.

**AN: Hey, any of you reviewers up for a challenge? I want to know if any of you can guess which famous tragedy-romance couple (OTHER THAN Tristan and Isolde) I loosely based parts of Edmund and Lucy's relationship in this fanfic on? I'll give you a hint: they're in a novella from India. AND (hint number two) parts of the earlier chapters of this fic were inspired by that book. If any of you can guess, put in it in your review. I'll be extremely impressed if anyone gets this right. **


	20. Caspian's Plan

**AN: First things first; the answer to the challenge I gave my readers in my AN at the end of the last chapter. The answer is: "Devdas and Parvati" from "Devdas" (I also would have accepted, "Devda and Paro" -same difference). And the only reviewer to guess and get it right was VampyKaee23. Second things second; I'm going to ask my readers to take a bit of a leap of faith so to speak with me on this one...there are some things in this chapter that may make a few of you feel like throwing things at me (nothing hard, please, I bruise very easily, and no pitchforks because the sharp ends...they scare me...LOL).**

Lucy sat in her white-walled rooms, staring into the fire as it faded into naught but embers. She thought about getting up off of her chair and prodding at the maple-wood logs with the fire-tongs, but there wasn't much need for it. It was actually the responsibility of the ladies-in-waiting to keep the fire going when there weren't any lower servants around, but, since it was a warm day and none of them were cold enough so that they wanted to re-light it for themselves, and they would have rather let Lucy be cold if not directly ordered otherwise-still despising her-they did nothing.

There was a knock at the doors. Thinking it was Trufflehunter, perhaps with a letter from the king or some word about what was happening outside of the chambers she never left, Lucy stood, the folds of her blackish-blue taffeta-and-brocade dress dropping in half-neat, half-messy bunches at her ankles as she rose.

It was not the badger manservant after all; it was a golden-haired young man in fine clothes, a circlet of silver around his forehead.

"Prince Rilian," the ladies bowed.

Lucy was uncertain of how to address him, hoping he would speak first so she would be able to better-guess what she ought to say.

"Mother," he said unexpectedly, but very stiffly, his teeth quite close together, his hands behind his back, and his face pale with a quieter sort of fury than Lucy had ever seen in him before.

"M-my son," stammered Lucy.

"I've come to tell you something," said the prince.

"Yes?" Lucy's voice quivered.

"Edmund Philippe is dead, I'm sorry if this hurts you."

The room spun before her eyes, the world a massive white blur, her throat aching with unreleased screams. The little queen blinked at her stepson in an almost uncomprehending fashion.

"From what I hear he died instantly," said Rilian. "My father did not have to be so kind."

"Your father?" Lucy felt her stomach lurch. "What...wasn't it...the executioner on the scaffold?"

"No," Rilian explained, "my father did not wish to put his former knight through the humiliation of a public beheading, though his advisors encouraged him to do so."

Tears streaming down her face, Lucy choked out, "You mean he...Caspian...Caspian was the one who killed Edmund?"

Not so cold-blooded as he was trying to seem, Rilian swallowed hard, his face reflecting some mild pity for his stepmother, then nodded slowly.

"Oh, Aslan," sobbed Lucy, thinking of her dearest friend being killed-beheaded as a traitor-by her own husband.

"He went quickly, Mother, I hope that will help you sleep easier at night if nothing else."

As if in a trance, Lucy wadded awkwardly back to her chair and collapsed into its seat, her face drained of all colour, her legs too weak to hold her up. She looked smaller than ever, and Rilian-however furious he was about her betraying his father-had something of an urge to pat her shoulder in a comforting manner.

But before he could touch her, the queen murmured, "Leave me, I want to be alone. Tell my ladies to go away, too."

"You aren't going to ask what has been decided for you?" asked Rilian, surprised.

"It doesn't matter," whispered Lucy. She had nothing left now; her brother was in the countryside, her husband had killed the man she loved, and her dearest friend was dead. What did it matter what they did with her? They might behead her, too, though she figured it was more likely that she would be sent away. Either way, nothing mattered.

"I will leave you now, Mother, but I wish you to know that-if something happens and you are removed from being queen, no longer my stepmother-I will harbor no more angry thoughts against you or your dead lover. I won't forget you, but I will always think of you as you are now, a poor child in despair, and I will pray for you."

Lucy didn't reply; she didn't even look at him out of the corners of her eyes. She appeared, behind her blank, shocked, dull eyes, vaguely like she wanted to say, "Leave me," again but was simply too weak in sprit to form the words for a second time.

"I don't know what my father means to do with you," said Rilian, for the sake of clearing his conscience. "I have held back no great secrets as far as I know."

Although she was hardly even listening, Lucy managed a small nod-still not looking at him.

For a week's time, Queen Lucy sat in her chair (which she had moved from the fireplace hearth to the barred window) and gazed expressionlessly at the little particles in the air where the trickles of sunlight hit them, making the little dirt-specks glow like fairydust. She kept crying, unable to make herself stop, but she never felt the tears against her skin as they slid down like rain-she was completely numb.

During the first two days she didn't touch the golden plates of food Trufflehunter brought to her. Lucy looked down at them passively as if she barely even knew what she was supposed to do with the colourful fruit dishes and the hart and the dead fowl being served to her. Eventually hunger over-took her and she realized, even if Edmund was dead, she wasn't-not yet. She was still subject to mortality and to eating. Nearly starving, she stuffed a piece of bread into her mouth. It tasted like sawdust. She forced down two more rolls, gagged, and then waved the plate away; a fresh round of tears falling into it like little splinters of glass clinking on the precious metal.

She didn't wash or change her clothes for four of the seven days that dragged by meaninglessly, though she knew she was starting to smell. Eventually some of the kinder-natured ladies-in-waiting and chambermaids were able to coax her into a bath and into shedding the sweaty dark-coloured dress she hadn't bothered to remove.

The bath-water had been heated over the fireplace, so it was very warm-nearly hot-when the little queen slipped into it, yet she rested in it for so long-childishly shooing away the ladies' hands that reached out by the hour to help her up-that by the time she willed herself to climb out, she was freezing. She threw a plain white night-dress over herself and then pulled a gold-thread dressing-gown over it, loosely fastening the robe in place with a silk belt. Lucy then consented to take a few sips of tea and lie in her bed for the night; but by the morning she was in her chair, gazing at nothing, again. The queen had become thoroughly unreachable.

Finally, at the week's end, the king came to see her.

By this point, Lucy was beginning to get over the worst of the nightmares. When she heard a strange sound in the night, she no longer shot up in bed and lit a candle, frightened from a dream about Edmund standing on the scaffold, having to remind herself that he was already dead and had never even been on a scaffold to begin with. When there was a gossipy whisper among the ladies-in-waiting, she didn't secretly incline her ear thinking that it was something about her husband or her stepson. When a non-talking courtyard dog barked at someone's arrival, she didn't think it was her brother back from the countryside come to take her away from this place where she had slowly come to know so many horrors. The broken-hearted little queen knew the truth; she was completely and utterly alone. Not that she cared. Not anymore. At least, not as much.

So when Caspian knocked on the doors, Lucy didn't jump out of her seat-she barely flinched. Slowly, she let her eyes drift over to the guest and saw who he was. Her ladies were surprised when the queen didn't rise and curtsey to the king, especially since she was in disgrace, but Caspian seemed to understand. Not that it mattered what the ladies-in-waiting thought, considering that shortly after his arrival, he looked very hard at them, then at the small queen, and ordered, "Leave us."

"Lucy," he said, walking over to her chair and crouching down beside it.

"Sire," she managed feebly.

"Rilian told you?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"You killed him," whispered Lucy, actually looking directly into his eyes now, as if searching for some kind of remorse. "He didn't...I told you he didn't...that I...that we...and you...you..."

"Please try to understand,"

"This is my fault, isn't it?"

"What?"

"That Edmund's gone," she said softly, more tears flowing down her cheeks. "If I hadn't told him that I loved him, no one would have-"

"You're young," said Caspian, "you didn't realize...I'm sorry I was so angry with you before."

"I don't understand why _you _had to kill him," murmured Lucy. "If he had to..." -her voice gave way- "...if he had to be...why not have it done by someone else?"

"I had a reason," said Caspian, sighing gravely. "I believe sooner than you think, you will understand. I am sorry that I had to hurt you now, though."

"You don't hate me?" asked Lucy.

"No, of course not, I love you-I wasn't lying before when I told you that."

"Did you hate Edmund?" She felt that she had to know. If Caspian had killed her friend, taken a nearly-innocent life, simply out of hate and anger, she knew she could never forgive him. But if it had only been a matter of state, things weren't as black-and-white.

"No," said Caspian; "I would have called him my friend once, before he betrayed me over you."

"He was innocent." She didn't completely hate her husband-how could she when he had always been so kind to her?-but she couldn't look at him, not right then. She turned half-way in her chair and stared at the wall.

"He said the same thing about you," the king told her.

"Did they bury him already?" Lucy asked after a pause, her lower lip trembling.

"He isn't going to have a funeral, Lucy," Caspian explained patiently; "he was a traitor, no one will..." his voice trailed off.

"What about his sister?" Lucy demanded, her eyes flashing, not quite so dull now. "And his father? And his stepmother?"

"I do not believe they would do this country the dishonour of attending something regarding a man who betrayed his king."

Feeling cold down into her very bones, Lucy asked, "Where's his body, then?"

"Cremated," said Caspian, a little too quickly.

This was too much for Lucy; her shoulders began to shake violently.

Her husband put his hand on her arm. Forgetting for a moment that he was the king, and her loving husband besides, she shrugged it off.

"I need to tell you something else, something I didn't want you to hear from rumour before I told you myself." Caspian said when Lucy's shivering and weeping lessened a bit.

Lucy sat still, straight up in the chair, looking like a tiny, stiff, pale-faced china doll. Holding her breath, a bland expression returning to her face, she waited to hear what he had to say.

"You are not going to be queen anymore," his voice was shaky now. "I couldn't...couldn't manage to keep you...but I've...I have made other arrangements."

"Will you send me to the countryside?" If she could be with Peter again, maybe being sent away would be more of a blessing than a curse. She missed her brother dreadfully.

The king shook his head. "No, Lucy, not the countryside."

"Back to the Lantern Waste?" She hoped he would say no. To have to live day after day in exile in the very place all of her memories with Edmund rested might just drive her round the bend straight to madness.

"No," said Caspian, his tone still grave, "you don't understand...I'm not just...I mean...you won't be my wife anymore...do you see?"

"You've gotten a new wife?"

Caspian closed his eyes, sighed deeply, and nodded. "I'm sorry, I didn't have a choice."

"Who is she?"

"The daughter of the Duke of Galma."

"Have I met her?"

Caspian thought for a moment. "No, I don't think so."

"Oh."

"But I'm marrying her the day after you're..." he looked anxious, "...going on the scaffold."

"I'm going to die, too?"

"No," he reached out and grabbed her wrists, holding them just tightly enough so that she couldn't pull away, but gently so that he wasn't hurting her. "Listen, here's how it will work. You go up there as planned-don't look as if you had any hope-and kneel like you believe you are about to be beheaded. But, now this is important, Lucy, if you want to live you have to remember this, all right? You look up at me right before the sword comes down and wait for my signal; when you see me raise my finger with the royal signet ring on it, duck and grab onto the executioner's legs. The reason you are to wait for my signal is because that is the one moment when-if you duck-the sword will definitely miss you."

"What then?" breathed Lucy, dejectedly.

"Then I will spare you publicly," he said. "It will all be done in a manner that will not make me appear weak, as though I could not control my own wife and kingdom, but it will show you the justice you deserve as well. You do not deserve to die, Lucy."

Edmund didn't either, Lucy thought, though she didn't say this out loud, as the king was still explaining his plan.

"Our marriage will have to be annulled, but I will make all the preparations for that to be done swiftly and properly. I do not think your parents will be pleased, having had a daughter on the throne and then having her sent away and replaced, but the crown will be generous towards them, you have my word on that."

"If you aren't sending me to them-or to my brother-where am I going after you annul the marriage?" For the first time since she had lost Edmund, Lucy began to fell true, unadulterated fear curdling in her stomach. She thought she would almost rather die for real-if only the thought of having one's head cut off didn't sound so very painful-than to live in uncertain misery.

"Now here is a secret, Lucy, you cannot tell anyone, do you understand?"

She nodded.

"You are going to be married again."

A light breeze passing by at that moment could have knocked Lucy right off her chair in the stunned state she found herself in. Married? Again? To who? If she was being disowned by the king for so-called disgraceful conduct after her accused lover was executed, then why would anyone allow her to marry again? Why would anybody else even want to be her husband; if the king of Narnia himself could not keep her?

"I have given your ship, The Dawn Treader, to a young man who, like yourself, is in sore-straights with this country and needs to leave for a while. He is not man of title, only a nobody. He will be something like a captain on the ship, all but in name, having some more experienced crew members-all carefully chosen so that neither of you will come to any harm with them. You can travel at sea, which I didn't think you would mind anyway, for seven years. Then, when everything here has blown over, you can come back. I would not recommend announcing your arrival at court, even then, but you can live in Narnia peacefully after that. You won't have any titles or fancy things, but you'll have your life. And your husband will look after you."

Lucy felt faint. On the one hand she would love to go sailing-and to get away from all of the people who now thought ill of her-but, on the other, she was terrified. She would have another arranged marriage-to some sort of criminal, at best. Caspian seemed to think the man would be good to her, but that didn't make the notion any less frightening. What if she didn't like him? She would be trapped on that little ship-not even _her_ ship anymore, but, rather, her new husband's-with him, whether she got along with him or not.

Part of Lucy wanted to throw herself down at Caspian's feet and beg him not to leave her; that she was sorry for hurting him and for making him look weak, but she simply could not bear the strain of another arranged marriage. She had been lucky to some extent the first time; married to someone she at least liked, who treated her well. The chances of doing so well a second time were slim. Yet the queen knew she could do nothing; nor could the man who was her husband only for a little while longer. It was done. Her fate was sealed. Again.

"Lucy," said Caspian, seeing her fear, still holding her hands, "do you trust me?"

"I-" She did trust him; but she feared his arrangements as well. If that even made any sense. It was impossible to explain.

"This is for the best," said the king. "I am doing this for you, remember that."

Meanwhile, Peter sat outside of his manor in the countryside, sipping a glass of lemonade, waiting hopefully for the post. It was a quiet day; most days were when you lived as far away from everything as he did. He felt he would have liked the silence much more if it didn't give him so much time to reflect on all that was going wrong. News took a long time to reach him out there; and he worried about his sister, Queen Lucy of Narnia, constantly. He had heard only the day before that his brother-in-law had been killed on charges of high-treason; and he and his wife had cried for him; but the truth was, he feared for Lucy even more. He was distraught over Edmund's death-for they had been good friends-but the former knight was already gone, there was nothing left to be done there, Lucy's fate was seemingly undecided.

More than anything, Peter wanted to rush off and go to his sister's side, but he needed to think of his wife, too. Lady Susan was with child as he had thought, much more dramatically pregnant now. He couldn't let the court pull her in for questioning, or risk putting anything regarding their-now somewhat merger-resources on the line. Still, he swore to himself, that the moment Lucy appeared to be in actual danger, worse than being replaced or sent away, he would go to her. Nothing would stop him. But as for right then, Peter knew he had to wait and see. A queen could not be executed as passively as a nobody who had once been a knight was; it was simply not done that way. There would be plenty of warning; enough time for him to sweep in and save his sister if the matter became truly dire.

In the distance, kicking up clouds of sandy-brown dust, a horse ridden by a squire bearing the royal Lion's-head crest was approaching the manor.

Peter stood and went over to greet him.

"Whoa!" shouted the squire, pulling back on his horse's reins as the beast reared slightly.

When the horse had recovered, the squire took a letter from his doublet pocket and handed it to Peter. "From the king, Sir, I'm to watch you read it, and then to burn it afterwards."

Quickly, Peter tore open the letter and read it. His eyes widened.

It said:

_Sir Peter, _

_Greetings._

_I hope you and your wife are well. Things are not easy at court as of the moment, but I am sure you know that already._

_I am writing to you because I feared that when the news of your sister going to the scaffold reached you, you would naturally feel the need to come to her. _

_I assure you that she will not die, that I mean to spare her and to bring no harm to her whatsoever, but I urge you not to come to court. _

_The Pevensies are not a family well-liked here at the moment and I do not wish for you to be caught in the middle. _

_Please know I did truly love your sister and mean her no ill-will. She will be safe, though no longer my wife or Narnia's Queen. _

_Aslan bless you and your wife, may your life be free of the suffering that others like you have come to face. _

_-King Caspian of Narnia. _

Less than an hour later (after the letter had been burned), Peter began stuffing some things-clothes, shoes, traveler's food, and other provisions-into a satchel.

Susan found him doing this and asked him just where exactly he thought he was going.

"To Lucy," said Peter, as though it was obvious.

"But," Susan's brow crinkled as she pressed one hand to her rounded belly (she was thinking, if it was a boy in there, of perhaps calling him Edmund), "I thought the king told you not to come to court."

"And I wont go into the castle or the courtyard ground at all," Peter promised her, kissing his wife tenderly on the forehead. "I have our interests at heart, too, but I need to make sure she's going to be all right. The faux-execution is public anyway. I can stand in the crowds without being seen."

Susan sighed and placed one of her hands over his, noticing that it was shaking slightly. "You don't think the king will keep his word?"

"I know he will," said Peter, smiling grimly; "but...I don't know...I just have to be there...after what happened...I just need to see her spared with my own eyes before I believe it."

There was a quiet pause where neither of them said anything.

Then, Peter whispered, "Su, this is when I need you to tell me I'm not crazy."

She leaned against his arm. "You're not."

"Thank you."

"You need to go, then."

"Yes," said Peter, reaching up with his free hand and stroking the side of her face. "As soon as possible."

"I'm going with you," she told him.

"Susan, no." He shook his head and gazed at her in a tender, protective manner.

"Peter, I'm going with you."

He gave in and rubbed his thumb against her cheek again. "All right."

**AN: (leaves and comes back with a helmet and an insurance card) Okay, reviewers, let me have it. **


	21. Everything's New

The day was cloudy, over-cast and gray, looking very much as if it was going to rain. Peering out at the bleak sky through the poor view from the barred window, Lucy sighed heavily and turned away.

It was very strange, she thought, preparing for one's own execution when you knew you were going to be spared. All the same, there was always that stupid, irrational nagging thought lingering in the back of her mind that didn't sound at all like her, whispering cruelly, "What if he changes his mind and doesn't lift his finger? Or what if he's careless and waits too long before he remembers what he has to do?"

Of course none of that sounded anything like Caspian, and Lucy was able to reassure herself that, even with his belief that she had betrayed him, he still loved her and would not forsake her completely. Still hanging over her, however, was the fear that she herself might funk this. She, the nerve-racked former queen, might see the signal and not be swift enough to miss the blade. She wasn't fast-natured, she knew. Edmund had nearly always won when they'd raced back at the Lantern Waste. Sure, her legs being much shorter than his probably accounted for that, and the times she had won had probably been because he'd let her, but she still quivered with fear for a large portion of the morning.

Thinking of Edmund calmed her down considerably, surprising as that might seem. Lucy couldn't help thinking that, if the sword didn't miss her and she died, she would be no worse off than he was-they would both be dead together at least; both asleep in death. And if she managed to follow Caspian's instructions as she hoped she could-for even then she did not truly wish to die, she wanted to live-there was the reassurance that if Edmund were still alive, he would have wanted her to survive everything thrown in her way and to make a new life for herself. Either way, Lucy found that she felt closer to him, going to the scaffold, than she'd thought she would.

The little queen had been permitted to chose her own attendants to walk down with her to the scaffold and to stand at her side. Also, one of them would have to hold her crown when she took it off and handed it over, as a sign of giving up the queenship before death-Caspian had explained it all to her earlier. So, Lucy selected two of the more likeable ladies-in-waiting; one of them the little maid who had tried to comfort her when Peter left court. To hold her crown, she didn't chose a woman at all, although she had come close to asking a lady-faun to do it, simply for the look of the thing, before changing her mind. She knew it wasn't tradition, but she wanted Trumpkin the red dwarf to be the one she handed her crown to-and she wanted Trufflehunter the badger up there with her as well, if it would not shame them too greatly, and if they were willing. They both agreed, and as King Caspian had told the court not to murmur against his decision to allow it, it was done.

The dress Lucy wore as she stepped out into the chill air, walking slowly down the flagstone steps to the scaffold, was plain white, simpler than a night-dress, and she wore no ornaments except for her silver crown with the eight diamond diadems. How different this was from the coronation! Looking back it didn't seem like quite so very long ago. Her rein had been short; it had started off well; it had fallen from grace; and now it was over.

The scaffold was a large platform of grey-and-brown painted wooden planks and two black pine-wood steps. Little Lucy looked very small in comparison to the vast space up where she stood, even with all the others standing behind her, the only ones she dwarfed being Trumpkin and Trufflehunter. Her longish hair was up in a loose bun, so as to leave the back of her neck clear for the sword's strike, with a few fair, wispy strands having escaped, framing her round face.

She took in everyone and everything around her. The crowds; too many faces to count. The courtiers; some looking less than angry-she fancied they might actually pity her supposed fate now that their rage had cooled off. Lord Sopespian was there, but he did not look the least bit remorseful; Lucy thought his expression was more of restrained jubilation than anything else. General Glozelle looked a little sad, though, and Lucy felt the most childish urge to wave to him, or at least, to give the poor man a friendly smile. He had never been her friend-not really-but she'd never had any reason to dislike him, either. Compared to Sopespian the man was a saint.

In the very middle of the crowd, where Lucy could not make out individual faces, stood two people she would have recognized at once if they'd dared to come nearer; only one of them had a fatter belly and a more loosely-laced bodice than when the former queen had seen her last.

Then there was the king. Caspian was sitting up on a canopied stand on a throne-shaped out-door seat, the woman who would replace Lucy sitting beside him.

The Duke of Galma's daughter was not the kind of person even a more jealous sort of young woman than Lucy was could have hated. She really was a helpless-looking wisp of a woman. Only two or three years Lucy's senior, she had plain, mousy-brown hair and skin as chalky as pastry dough, her face dotted with more freckles-especially on the bridge of the nose-than a person could have counted using their fingers. She had wide hips under her royal blue silken gown, but the rest of her was as small and frail as a wild snow-coloured rabbit. Her height was not impressive either, considering she was barely even a head over Lucy, and that was only if she ever sat up straight and stopped leaning over to squint at everything. Not a threat at all. In fact, all Lucy thought when she saw her replacement was, "Poor girl."

She wondered, even, if the daughter of the duke would _like _being queen. Yes, some parts of it were lovely. There certainly were things about it that Lucy, in spite of being grateful to have her life spared, would miss. But what if something went wrong with this queen, too? What if she-without meaning to-also turned the whole country on its head? True, she most definitely did not _look_ like she could cause trouble, but then neither had the little child-bride Lucy remembered seeing in the looking-glass on Sir Digory Kirke's wardrobe right before her own wedding. The last queen Narnia had had that truly looked the part was Caspian's first wife. Anyone coming afterwards was just a poor substitute.

Lucy had heard her ladies whispering that the duke's daughter had already started her fittings for a wedding gown, and wondered-for a passing moment-if that was true. If it was, she wouldn't hold it against her. If she had not been the second wife to the king, and her parents had managed to push her into court as the third instead, her family would have arranged her fittings just the same. At least, even if the Pevensies were in disgrace now (and Lucy did feel sort of sorry for her parents, the count and countess, seeing as the whole mess had started with them trying to prove their high-standing and pride to the Philippes who they'd unwittingly pulled down into shame with them), the Duke of Galma had stepped up considerably. She could be happy for him, assuming he was a good man. She didn't know him, of course, but she liked to think he was.

Staring out into the crowds again, Lucy suddenly wondered if she ought to say something. Caspian hadn't suggested she make a speech or anything like that, but the way everyone was looking at her so expectedly made her feel as if she simply had to say something, though she couldn't fathom what. A spoken formal apology would probably be received the best. Lucy, however, didn't feel like saying, "I'm sorry." Not only did it sound weak and pointless, it also made her seem far more guilty than she actually was. What did they need her to say sorry for anyhow? They had Edmund's blood for the sin they assumed he had committed with her, didn't they? And they were going to have her crown now. So they didn't need a cliché queen-on-the-scaffold moment.

Would it be wrong to tell the truth, then? If she was really going to be beheaded, Lucy knew she would have told them flat-out that she-and Ed-were innocent. Yet, as Caspian had his plan to release her and to keep his country strong at the same time, she couldn't necessarily just blurt that out. She wished she could say something nice for Edmund, though, that was what pricked at her conscience the most-that he hadn't been spared, too.

"I tried to be a good queen," Lucy finally settled on, speaking shakily. "I wish I could have done better and been what Narnia needed."

She must have looked quite pitiful, for a few courtiers wiped at their eyes, watching her hands slowly raise themselves above her head and lift off her silver crown, handing it backwards, over to Trumpkin.

Then a hand pushed Lucy down onto her knees. Her lips quivered, tears blurred her vision and for one horrible moment she feared she would be blinded by them so that she could not see Caspian's signal. Blinking rapidly, she looked over at her soon-to-be-former husband.

The king did not let her down; his finger moved just as the sword was swinging dangerously close to the back of her neck. Doomed Queen Lucy ducked and grabbed onto the executioners legs, holding on with all her might, her arms aching dreadfully.

"No, please! In the name of Aslan, don't!" cried Lucy, as if she really were about to be beheaded-as if it wasn't simply a short step up from being a play.

Of course Lucy knew the king couldn't control the weather, but it seemed just a mite too perfect that the sky overhead rumbled and raindrops started shooting down. If she hadn't looked pathetic before, she certainly did now.

Sure enough, King Caspian rose up just as the guards rushed forward to pry Lucy's arms off of the executioner's calves so that they could proceed with the beheading.

"Stop!" Caspian ordered.

Everyone, courtier and commoner alike, tilted their heads to look at him. Peter breathed a sigh of relief and squeezed Susan's hand. Trumpkin's pale-with-worry face behind his long carrot-coloured beard flushed with a slowly easing conscience; he hadn't wanted to see a child-queen beheaded, either.

"I believe Lucy has been through enough with the prospect of being beheaded, and of the man she cared for being executed first." The king's voice carried as he spoke so that no one could possibly have any excuse for missing a word here and there. "Those who doubted my power and strength have been corrected-for one who went against me is dead and the other is humiliated. Those who-and I know there are more of you than you will admit-wanted justice and mercy for Lucy will get it. And by keeping her alive, she will live to learn from her mistakes."

Looking rather frustrated, the Duke of Galma shouted, "What about my daughter, Sire?

"What about her?"

"You promised to make her queen," he said sourly. "How can she be queen if you have a wife still living?"

"Lucy is not my wife any longer," said the king, "I hereby annul our marriage on both the ground of infidelity, and on the ground that it was never consummated. We are both free of each other; and she is to be sent away."

Lucy's dress was rather soaked from the rain now, though the heads of everyone watching her stand there shivering-except for the king and the duke's daughter-were just as wet.

Everyone seemed satisfied with King Caspian's choice to let her live. Not even Lord Sopespian protested-which was surprising in itself. Probably that was because he got what he wanted anyway. A new queen on the throne, Lucy gone, and Narnia turned on its head-if only for a moment. So, without further ado, the king snapped his fingers, ordering his servants to throw a cape over Lucy's shoulders before she caught her death, and then went inside the castle to get ready for a short trip down to the eastern harbor the Dawn Treader was docked in.

As soon as she had changed clothes, looking very like a commoner because of no more silver or gold thread or raised designs on her dresses, not even the rights of the daughter of a ladyship any longer, Lucy was taken out to a carriage prepared for her. The king sat beside her and didn't speak until they were nearly there and he noticed she was crying into the crook of her arm, trying to hide her tears from him.

"Lucy," said Caspian, glancing from her to the thin stream of gray light that peeked through the carriage windows, "he wont hurt you. You'll have everything you ever wanted; a husband close to your own age, an adventure, a ship, and a decent means of living. I would never leave you hanging, even after what happened."

"We didn't," sighed Lucy, blinking at the man who had been her husband. "I know you won't believe me, but Ed and I never did what everyone at court is convinced we were guilty of."

"You still stand by that story," Caspian's expression looked rather forlorn, almost wistful.

"We went to see the eclipse, we sat on a hill, that's where we were when you can't account for us."

"And what happened on the hill?"

"Do you really want to know?" asked Lucy, closing her eyes and then opening them again. "The truth, I mean, not what everyone assumes."

"The truth would be nice."

"We kissed," she admitted, "but Edmund stopped because he remembered I was yours-he wasn't out to betray you or to steal me away from you. He never was."

"Nothing else happened?"

Lucy shook her head. "Then he brought me back to Cair Paravel."

Caspian's face looked strained; and she couldn't tell whether or not he really believed her this time, although she always did like to think afterwards that he had.

"What about when you were both alone in your chambers together? Or that night I had to go and track you down at that manor?"

"He never touched me," Lucy swore, tears pricking at her eyes as she thought about how much she missed him.

Caspian sighed again, not asking anything further.

"What's his name?"

"Hmm?" Caspian's mind had wandered off a bit after she'd finished talking.

"The man I have to marry and live on the Dawn Treader with for seven years," Lucy clarified; "what's his name?"

Caspian pressed his lips together, only releasing them when the carriage came to a stop, to say, "Come on, I think your husband would prefer to leave the country as soon as possible. He will not want to be seen by anyone other than the crew, I believe."

A footman took Lucy's hand and helped her down from the carriage. A man stood by the harbor wearing a long black cloak with a hood pulled over his face. She found this most unfair, considering that she wouldn't have even known he was around her age if Caspian hadn't told her so.

Maybe he has a scar or a deformity, Lucy thought as her initial irritation began to wane a bit, pitying her new husband a little. If she couldn't love him-since she didn't even know him-she could at least find something about him to understand, if nothing to like.

It was much more likely that he was hiding his face from anyone who might be looking for a known criminal. This would have frightened Lucy far more if she didn't keep on reminding herself to trust Caspian. She was a little afraid, still, of being married off to this faceless stranger, but the king had not let her down during the execution, so she didn't feel right doubting him.

Caspian stared very sternly at the hooded man and said, "Here is your wife, as I promised."

The man's hood bobbed-showing nothing-as if he had nodded, and he came closer.

At that, Caspian took Lucy's hand and joined it with the hand of the man under the cloak.

He's wearing a leather glove, Lucy noted, feeling the leather wrap around her hand.

"You are lawfully wedded under the laws of Narnia, so you may live as husband and wife," said the king, in a very official-sounding voice, "but you are also banished for the time period of seven years. Any treasure or loot you find during this expedition is half-yours, but any new lands claimed by your crew are wholly subject to the crown of Narnia. Also you may not take slaves or own any animals save for the chickens already on board your ship or else a dog or cat of your choosing if any places you find yourselves in happen to have such creatures."

Lucy's face twisted, as if it were about to crumple, and tears started to roll down her face once again.

"Goodbye, Lucy," said Caspian, in a final-but not unkind-voice.

She watched, her new husband still holding her hand, as the king climbed back into the carriage. Part of her wanted him to look back, and maybe if he had been a free man, not a king, he would have, but his head did not appear in the window.

As far as Lucy could figure this was the last time she would see Caspian for seven years, if not for ever-since she probably could never return to court. And he never looked back. He was stepping into a new life, and a new queen would soon be his. Rilian would have another new 'mother' to adore and be a son to, one who hopefully would not disappoint him as Lucy had. And, she, no longer Queen Lucy, no longer Lucy Pevensie, Lucy Nobody, apparently, had to live with that. She had to learn to survive with her new husband and new life. This wasn't what she had thought would become of her, but it was her life now. She would have to make the best of it.

Her husband let go of her hand and walked onboard the ship, looking at her from under his hood-though she still couldn't see him at all-as if he expected her to follow him.

When she boarded the ship, greeted by a few crew members who-thankfully-seemed like nice people, she went to the prow and stood where she could, if she leaned just a little bit and squinted, see the king's carriage vaguely in the distance, getting smaller and smaller.

While she stood there, unsure of what to do with herself, her husband came up behind her and squeezed her hand, pressing something into it, then he vanished onto the other side of the ship.

Curious, Lucy looked down at the object in her hand. It was a peppermint. For one second she almost thought...but it couldn't be! And her hopes soared and then plummeted, remembering that her Edmund was dead. The peppermint had been a sweet gesture, and she was glad that her new husband was kind enough to think of such a thing, while a little surprised that it _was _a peppermint of all things, but she reminded herself that he wasn't Edmund Philippe.

"Mistress Lucy," an elderly crew member approached her.

Ah, so that's who I am now, Lucy realized. Not a lady, nor a queen, just a maiden, a mistress. It was still better than being called 'Dame', at least, she consoled herself, thinking of Dame Macready back at her parents home in the Lantern Waste.

"Y-yes?" She turned her head and looked into the old man's sky-blue eyes.

"I'm to show you to your cabin, under orders, miss."

"Very well," said Lucy, following him across the deck and into the largest of the small cabins on board.

"There is a lantern in here, you can light it when it gets dark. Will that be sufficient, Mistress Lucy?"

"Yes, thank you."

His expression became discomfited for a moment. "The movement of the ship does not bother you? I can get you something with ginger in it; it helps sea-sickness."

Lucy shook her head. "No, I love it." The rocking of the boat, now that she stopped worrying about her future and began to drink it in, was actually more soothing than anything else.

"It's early evening now, and I don't know when your husband will be able to come to you. He is below deck at the moment, dealing with some sailing charts, but he wanted me to tell you that he will try to come as soon as possible."

The old man meant this in the nicest of ways, and Lucy knew that, but he was beginning to scare her unwittingly. For she realized now that having only been married once, to an older man still grieving for his first wife, she hadn't been expected to sleep in the same bed with him. She'd had her own chambers and ladies and servants, practically her own little household. But on the Dawn Treader she would not have that. She would be lucky if he didn't sleep directly on top of her, considering that the bunk wasn't very spacious. For some reason she hadn't thought about this before, that he might want to touch her. Her mind had thought only of the sorrow of leaving all she had finally come to know, and of losing Edmund. That was it.

And as the man turned and left her alone, Lucy felt her teeth chattering together. If her new husband-whoever he was-touched her, she'd scream-she knew she would. But who would help her? He was her husband; the king himself had said so. No crew member in his right mind was going to break down the cabin door if her own husband tried something with her.

Why didn't I think of this before and run away? Lucy thought, feeling stupid and overly-innocent, babyish, even. She felt that if she had any brains, any of that good sense Edmund's sister had always had too much of, she wouldn't have let herself be put into this cabin at all.

Maybe there was still time; the ship had taken off, probably, but she could jump off, into the water, and...

And what? Swim where? There was no where for her to go. Besides, she hadn't even talked to her husband yet. Caspian wouldn't have given her to a monster, she kept telling herself, so she needed to calm down.

Hours went by, and Lucy sat on the bunk, a wool blanket around her shoulders, trying not to burst into an endless round of sobs. She wondered if Peter knew where she was.

Finally the door creaked open and her husband, still in a hooded cloak, walked in.

"Hullo?" said Lucy, still trembling.

"Are you all right?" said a warm, concerned, gentle voice from under the black hood. "Your heart's beating so fast, like a drum, I can hear it all the way from the other side of the cabin."

Lucy's gaze on the figure tightened; her face was white, not with fear any longer, but with pure awe. She knew that voice.

**AN: Reviews are nice. How's about leaving one? **


	22. Freedom & Love

**AN: /!/ Warning /!/- some slightly suggestive mature content in this chapter (nothing too bad-I don't write THOSE kind of stories-but this is a T-rated fic). On a different note, I think the next chapter will be the final chapter in this fic. **

"It can't be," murmured Lucy. She had already ruled out the possibility that it was somehow Edmund Philippe; but that was his voice! She would have known it anywhere.

The figure that was her husband reached up and pulled his hood back, revealing himself to her in the lantern light that lit their small cabin. A face every bit as familiar as the voice was; memorized since childhood. A perfect match. Dark haired and slightly grave-mouthed, he was just as she remembered him. Either this was her Edmund, come back from the dead, or else it was a man as like as two peas.

"Lucy," said her husband, speaking softly still, reaching into the pocket of the doublet he wore under his cloak and pulling something out.

As if she had seen a ghost (and she very nearly _had_ as far as she knew at the time), Lucy trembled and retreated, pulling her legs further into the bunk, edging away from the miracle even though all she wanted was to throw her arms around him and never let him go. She wondered if she was dreaming, for though she could believe in a great many things that other girls would have considered nonsense by her age, this was stretching the fine line a bit too thin. How could he be standing in front of her? Everyone knew he was dead. Everybody was well aware that Edmund Philippe had been executed as a traitor. They'd even all seen...

Wait, what _had_ they seen? Nothing, Lucy realized, thinking back on what she knew. No public beheading, no funeral because of his 'crimes', and a cremation that no one seemed to know any details about. So, other than Caspian-by his own tale-no one had seen him die or seen his corpse afterwards, not even his ashes. Indeed, even if they had, didn't all ashes look rather alike? The remarkable thing was that Prince Rilian himself probably knew as little about the traitor's remains as the lowest commoner in all of Narnia did.

Goggling at her husband, Lucy watched as he placed something down on the bunk beside her. She touched it gingerly and lifted it up as if she was afraid it would melt away into dust. It was the seed-pearl necklace with the dagger pendant. The peppermint and the pendant, a man who looked exactly like Edmund Philippe staring at her with expectant concern, it _was _him!

"It's you," wept Lucy, finally coming out of her shock and more or less flinging herself into his arms. "Oh, by the Lion, how? How Edmund? I thought you were dead."

"No," said Edmund, clinging to her. "He spared me, Lu."

"But he told me he beheaded you himself," she murmured, pressing her cheek against his ear.

"I thought he was going to," explained Edmund, pulling away just a little bit so that he could look at her while he spoke. "He took me into the room for it and everything. Lucy, I swear I wet my tights when he picked up that sword."

Lucy winced, imagining the whole scene in her mind. Edmund on his knees, Caspian's hands-perhaps shaking ever so slightly-wrapping around the hilt of a strong sword, ready to do the job.

"But he didn't," Lucy marveled. "What happened? Did you say something to him?"

Edmund shook his head. "No, I just looked at him, and then he looked at me. I shut my eyes, I knew he was going to..." -his voice trailed off- "...but then I heard the sword strike against the wall. I opened my eyes; the king had cried out and thrown it across the room."

Lucy felt a smile slowly creeping up onto her face, replacing her grimace. Caspian had been a kind husband, in this merciful way as well as in all others, she was sorry she hadn't been able to love him as much as she loved Edmund-it would have saved everybody a lot of pain. At least the new queen would have the comfort of being looked after by someone as compassionate as the king of Narnia.

"Then he said that he had lost everything; two queens, his country's stability, and his belief in loyalty. I was waiting for him to walk across the room and pick up the sword again; instead he glanced at it out of the corner of his eye and shook his head. Finally, after a while, he asked me if I still refused to tell him the truth."

"What did you say?"

"That he wouldn't believe it, that he hadn't believed it all along when you tried to tell him." Edmund shrugged his shoulders. "Somehow I ended up telling him about the Lantern Waste and how close we were, and about the time you almost drowned because I pushed you off the wall into the brook, and I saw something-I don't know what, but I saw it-change in him. Although, to be honest, I don't think he believed me when I told him nothing happened between you and me in your chambers, not even then. And he said-I already knew it, though-that I didn't deserve you. Then he told me this whole plan about sailing for seven years on the Dawn Treader and threw a cloak at me. He smuggled me out the back water-gate through the apple orchard and I've been hiding out at the docks, waiting to leave Narnia, ever since."

"Oh, Edmund, I'm so glad you're all right, you don't know-" blurted Lucy, her eyes growing watery for what must have been the hundredth time since things had begun to go wrong in her life.

"Shh, everything's better now, you don't have to cry anymore." Edmund wiped a couple of Lucy's tears away and lightly caressed her cheeks and the upper part of her neck.

"Ed, are we really husband and wife now?" asked Lucy, as if she could scarcely believe it.

"Yes," said Edmund, slipping his arm down from her neck where his hand was resting so that it wrapped around her waist.

How strange it was, Lucy thought to herself as her husband began to kiss her lips repeatedly, lingering more each time he pressed against them, that one moment things could seem their bleakest and most horrid; and the next everything could be like a sort of dream, something so wonderful that it felt like it couldn't really be happening. But it _was _happening.

"You know," Edmund murmured in-between kisses, "there was something I wanted to say to you that night the Calormene Prince and the Lone Islanders walked in on us."

"What's that?" she whispered.

"I love you, too," he told her. "I always will, Lucy-lu. The strongest light in the world-the lamppost-could flicker, Narnia could over-turn itself into fire and water, the whole world could go mad, and I'd still love you."

Lucy leaned forward and kissed him. Slowly she started to lower herself backwards so that she was lying down in the bunk more than she was sitting on it. She felt herself bringing Edmund down with her, though she barely knew what she was doing.

He didn't seem to mind; he stretched out across the small space, sighed deeply, and went right on kissing her.

For a few minutes Lucy rested under him while he showered her with displays of affection, until finally he sighed again and lifted up his head, looking down into her face a little sorrowfully.

"Edmund?" said Lucy, concerned, noticing the distant expression that had suddenly come onto his face.

"I was just thinking," said Edmund, "that there's one thing you were never given, and it hardly seems fair."

Lucy's brow arched slightly, confused.

"You were never given a choice, not even once."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, first your family forced you to marry King Caspian. Then I acted like an idiot and got us into a whole lot of trouble. After that, Caspian took you off the throne and made you marry me, a supposedly deceased traitor. I mean, you never had a chance to decide what you really wanted. You should have had a choice, not been booted into thrones and titles and then out of them."

Lucy considered this, gazed up into Edmund's brown eyes, and softly replied, "It doesn't matter anymore. Peter was right, he knew all along what-and who-I would have chosen. It isn't treason to say it now, that I knew all along in spite of this mess, that I would have been with you. I meant what I before my wedding to the king."

"So you aren't sorry that you now have to sail for seven years with a condemned treasonous nobody?"

She reached up and cupped his chin and the lower part of his face with her hands. "No, I don't wish things were different, not now, not when I'm with you."

"Oh, my sweet Lucy." He carefully and gently lowered himself back on top of her again, and put his lips to her forehead. He knew he didn't deserve a woman like the little girl who had run all over the western woods with him was growing into, but at the same time he thanked the Lion that she had-in her own way, actually _given _a choice or not-chosen him.

Feeling a warm sense of security she hadn't felt in so long, Lucy moaned softly as Edmund began to feel a little more free with his hands, putting them in places he wouldn't have dared before, and let him pull her under the blankets.

Morning dawned pure and golden; the sun shining on the sea-water reflecting on the other side of their cabin. They danced like thin rippling lines of silvery gold and made all four walls, even the three they did not directly cast light on, seem bright.

Lucy's eyes followed them lazily as she laid sideways in the bunk, Edmund's arm around her waist (he was still asleep). She didn't want to get up, but after a few hours, knowing the morning was ticking by, she squirmed out from under her husband's arm and wandered over to where a small wash-basin was so that she could splash some cool water over her face.

A few seconds after Lucy had gotten up, Edmund must have felt the bunk move and woken (either that or he had been partially feigning sleep so that he could hold her a while longer, which was quite likely). At any rate, he sat up in the bunk and watched his dear sweet little wife, wearing one of his night-shirts to cover herself (her clothes from the day before were crumpled on the floor at the edge of the bunk), wipe the sleep from her eyes and sigh happily.

"Good morning," he said after taking her in for a few moments.

She turned and looked at him. "Oh, I thought you were asleep."

"I was," said Edmund, a little defensively.

Lucy fought back a giggle, not sure what it was exactly she suddenly felt like laughing at. Maybe it was simply that everything felt so different this morning, like there was a tremendous weight off of her shoulders.

Climbing out of the bunk, Edmund noticed a red smear on one of the under-blankets. He had wondered, since he hadn't been there when the announcement was made, exactly what grounds Caspian had been able to annul his marriage on. He figured, though it secretly vexed him greatly-thinking of how such a claim made poor Lucy look, that the king had used supposed infidelity as his excuse. But he might as well have used non-consummation, instead.

"He said both," Lucy told her husband.

Apparently, Edmund had spoken his last thought out loud without meaning to.

"I see."

After a slightly awkward pause, Lucy asked, "How did you know that we never...I mean, I never told you if..." Her face went a little red, thinking about what she and Ed had done the night before and how it had been her first time, and how she hadn't really been sure of what she was doing. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No!" exclaimed Edmund, rather indignantly, plenty thrilled that he was her first just as she was his. He wouldn't have had it any other way. "Of course not!" He coughed pointedly into his palm and gestured at the blankets.

She saw the stain. "Oh."

Suddenly a little insecure, now that the subject was brought up, he asked, "Did _I_?"

Lucy's face was practically crimson. "I wouldn't know...I mean, I don't think...no, I don't think so."

"I didn't hurt you at all, did I?" Edmund put his biggest concern into words, not caring if it happened to sound stupid or not; Lucy wouldn't hold it against him.

"No, you were perfectly gentle."

Looking relieved, he handed her his cloak to wear over the night-shirt and asked if she wanted any breakfast. "I'm more or less captain of the Dawn Treader now, I can order the crew to get us some eggs-we've got poultry on board."

"Sounds good," Lucy told him; "I'm starving."

"I'll go and tell them, then," said Edmund, heading for the cabin door, but turning around to look at her one last time before leaving. What he saw made his grin widen more than he'd thought possible; Lucy was reaching behind her neck to fasten the seed-pearls back where they belonged.

"What is it?" She noticed him looking at her with a very dreamy expression.

"Nothing," said Edmund, biting back the remainder of his smirk and walking over to her. "Let me help you with that." He moved her hair out of the way, fastened the necklace, kissed her neck so briefly it tickled, and then went back to the now ajar cabin door to go out and make the proper arrangements for their breakfast.

Late that afternoon, Lucy stood on deck, leaning just the slightest bit over the Dawn Treader's railing, looking out to sea. It was as smooth as a turquoise stone, little white scuff-like marks for waves.

A few crew members greeted her as they walked by. They didn't seem either to notice-or care-that she was wearing her husband's clothes; boy's tunic and tights over a simple white shirt. She had her own luggage somewhere on board, but she didn't feel like rummaging for it at the time, even if Ed's clothes were a little big on her; she was too dazzled and joyful to bother. It was true that life hadn't been easy up until then, and Lucy figured there would be hardships to come (anything could happen seven years at sea), however, it felt so good to be free. She was no country's queen, no king's child-bride, no knight's so-called lover, no pawn in a political matter, no daughter of an offended count; Lucy Philippe was a free woman, married to what the royal court considered a dead nobody, and she was ready for whatever came next.

Edmund, freed for a couple of hours from his captain-like duties, walked over to his wife, stood behind her, and slipped his arms around her shoulders.

"Nice view, isn't it?"

"I've never felt so free," whispered Lucy; "or so warm." She leaned against his arms.

"Not scared I'm going to push you in?" he teased, muttering in her ear.

"Does it matter? I know you'd jump right in after me and pull me right back on board."

"You're pretty sure of yourself," chuckled Edmund, his friendly-battering knowing no bounds at the moment. "Everyone knows I'm a traitor."

"Edmund Philippe, don't you ever use that word about my husband again, I'm sick of hearing it."

"Sorry, my love."

Lucy twisted her neck to grin up at him. "I don't think you've ever called me that before."

"You like it?"

She nodded and blushed.

"Then you'll hear it often, Lu."

Lucy gazed out at the sea again. It was one of those afternoons where the sun set early, and she could see the warm pinkish-orange glow falling over the blue of the water.

How wonderful it is, thought Lucy, to be in love and have the freedom to admit it.

**AN: Reviews are welcome, as always.**


	23. Conclusions

**AN: This is just a short concluding chapter to tie up the loose ends of the story. Hope you all like it. **

Now that this story is coming to a close, the reader might rightly be wondering what became of the Narnian court after Edmund and Lucy left it to sail on the Dawn Treader for seven years.

Well, at first, things were a little unstable, in spite of Caspian's strenuous efforts to keep everything in line. A few of his subjects must have suspected that he had never really killed Edmund Philippe, though they said nothing about it aloud, and there was the occasional nobleman who would stand up against the king, thinking him too soft to rule Narnia. Thankfully all that grumping resulted in a battle which-while relatively small as far as battles went-was a dramatic enough display to show Caspian's strengths. Afterwards, Aslan himself turned up and told the court not to rebel against their king. The only one who said he would not listen to 'some big whooping, jabbering cat' was Lord Sopespian; and he was later beheaded for treason. A sad-yet fitting-end to the life of the man who had used wickedness and half-truths to bring down a queen and her knight.

General Glozelle became a Lord again after Sopespian's death, gaining back all he had lost.

The knight who had blackmailed Peter into leaving the court at Cair Paravel caught a serious illness that drained his face of all colour and left him weak, sweaty, and breathless. The physicians were at their wits ends as far as helping him get better went, and finally thought it would be worthwhile to grant him a last request in case he slipped away without warning. His request, strange as it may sound, was for someone to send for Sir Peter at his manor in the countryside and to bring the retired knight to his deathbed so that he could speak to him.

Everybody figured the knight would die before Sir Peter Wolf's Bane arrived-if he even bothered to come at all-but, remarkably, the knight did not die, and Peter came.

"I'm sorry," said the knight when he saw Peter enter the room.

"You went against my sister," Peter said slowly, his eyes flickering between pity for the man who looked so weak and helpless, and hatred for the man he had been before he had fallen ill. "You threatened me into leaving court when the queen needed me the most, you're unbelievably lucky you didn't lose your head along with Lord Sopespian, and yet, you call me all the way from my home just to ask my forgiveness?"

The knight closed his eyes; the ash-coloured lids looked rather ghostly. "Yes."

"Edmund Philippe was my brother-in-law, if it weren't for you-"

"Do you believe he really died?" croaked the knight.

"You're trying to trap me into treason," said Peter, coldly. "It won't work. I won't say anything that-"

"No, Peter, I'm not asking you as a courtier, I'm asking you as a person. Do you think a king really would kill his wife's lover himself instead of having someone do it for him?"

"That would depend on the king," Peter replied cautiously, "and what sort of man he is. It would depend on how much he loves his wife and if he really believes her guilty of sin. A lot would be staked on the lover, too."

"Do you think it would depend on who betrayed the queen's secret as well?"

"Lord Sopespian is dead, Sir, and lackeys like you cannot be held as the hub of the wheel, can they? That is why you keep your head."

"I did not send for you to torment me," said the knight, his tone bordering on sulky.

"You don't think I deserve to after what you did?"

"Point taken."

"Good."

"So, am I forgiven?"

"Are you only asking me because you're dying?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, maybe."

"If you get well, will you threaten me again?"

"I shouldn't think so," said the knight, leaning back on his pillows with a pensive look on his face. "After all, even if I told the king now that Susan helped Edmund that night at the drawbridge, what would he care? There is a new queen, no one cares anymore."

"In other words, you're powerless?"

"Don't I look it?" He was a frail, sickly man.

"Very well then, I forgive you." Peter told him.

"You will return to court?"

"I don't know yet," said Peter, "I like the countryside, it's free of a lot of problems you get sucked into at court, but I think Susan might want to come back. We'll see."

"You could be a knight again," he said; "even if you are a Pevensie."

"We'll see."

The knight recovered from his sickness, surprising everyone, and as time passed he became a reformed character. He and Peter were never on the best of terms; there was always the tension of betrayal and blackmail between them. But they got along better than they had before, and by the time they were old, old men, they were almost something like friends.

As for Peter himself, he did return to court and-with King Caspian's permission-took up being a knight again. Susan came with him, of course, and shortly thereafter had her baby. It was a boy, who she christened Philippe Edmund Pevensie; in spite of protests from up-tight courtiers, appalled that she would name a child after a dead traitor. But Philippe grew into such a strong, beautiful little boy with golden-brown ringlets, possessing the tenderness of his mother and the bravery of his father, so that soon nearly everyone forgot-or simply stopped caring-where his name had come from.

The Pevensie name was cleared with time and-after Sir Peter was given an earldom and any number of extra lands and manors, including one in Ettinsmoor which he allowed his grandfather to live in-the scandal of Queen Lucy was almost never spoken of, and the family was able to keep on advancing in court.

Harold and Alberta caught wind of the fact that Peter remained steadily in the king's favor and always tried to use their connection to him to whatever advantage they could. They did not get anywhere worth mentioning. Their son Eustace fared better; he married Lord Pole's daughter, Lady Jill, and was happy. He and his wife also became very wealthy after discovering the lost lair of a dead dragon, filled to the brim with treasure.

Countess Helen Pevensie and Edmund's half-Calormene stepmother eventually became friends again. They bonded over the fact that, because of politics, they were unable to publicly mourn their own children; the one dead and the other sent away in disgrace. The Count and Edmund's father just sort of sat brooding next to each other with sullen expressions while their wives talked most times, but there came to be an understanding between them so that they didn't hate one another any longer.

The Duke of Galma's daughter proved to be, though not a terribly regal queen as far as appearance went, a very kind co-ruler, and her subjects began to love her. Rilian liked her because she never gave him a moment's worry; the knights all adored her, as if she was their sister as well as their queen, but the chances of her having a romance with any of them proved to be greatly limited. After a while, Caspian came around to her and started to fall in love for the third time in his life. She was nothing like his last two wives, yet she was good-natured and devoted to him. Although she was quiet and sort of dull, there was an endearing factor under all of that; one always knew she meant well and wasn't going to get herself into any scrapes. And she adored her husband whole-heartedly, poor girl, having little else in her thoughts to really cling to.

Her end was rather sad; she died in childbirth, giving the king a set of twins, a boy and a girl. Before she faded away, she christened the girl Princess Jane, not living long enough to give the princess's brother a name as well.

The boy remained unnamed for a while, since his father was too busy grieving to think of one.

Then came the day the king wandered into the nursery to see his children. They weren't very pretty babies, either of them, as plain and freckled and pale as their mother had been, but they were _his _and he couldn't have loved them more if they had been as plump and golden as Rilian was at their age. It seemed wrong that one of his precious little children-a legitimate son and possible heir to the throne if anything should ever happen to Rilian, no less-didn't have a name, so the king finally decided to call him Peter, after one of his most highly-regarded knights.

Now one might rightly assume that Caspian had the worst ending of the lot; but he was not really the sort of man who cared all that much about endings. The way he saw it, especially as he got older and grey appeared in his dark hair, was that he had been a man blessed with three loves, three children, and a kingdom. What man could ask for more? True, it hadn't been an easy road, and he had lost so much along it. Still, he always reminded himself that it wasn't how matters concluded that mattered; it truly was what happened in the middle. And the fact that he could look in the mirror each morning and be proud of what he saw, that he could know the face that stared back at him was a good father and a strong king, was no small matter to him.

Caspian never took another wife after his third one, despite those who urged him to do so. He said he was getting too old and that sooner or later Rilian would be king anyway. If they needed to find a young girl-bride for anyone now, he told them, it wasn't him, it was his son.

The Dawn Treader's seven years at sea came to an end, Lucy and Edmund returning to Narnia. Things weren't easy for them in those days. Edmund needed to make a living for himself and his wife now that they were back on land again, but getting employed proved a little difficult for a man who was legally declared dead. Somehow or other they managed to get by; Lucy wasn't a very demanding wife, pleased with whatever progress her dear Edmund could make, never asking for anything besides clothes on their backs and food for them to eat.

If you're wondering, Lucy and Peter did see each other again when she returned from her seven year voyage and their reunion was one of tears and embraces and cheek-kissing. How amazed he was when she introduced her husband, none other than Edmund Philippe! The two men also had a rather misty-eyed moment when Peter finally recognized his brother-in-law and pulled him into a group hug with himself and Lucy.

Unfortunately, very sad to report, the same could not be said of the meeting between Edmund and Susan. His sister, having thought him dead for seven years, didn't recognize him at all, simply unable to see her little brother in this grown-man's eyes as her husband could. She didn't believe him when he told her his name, nor even when Lucy explained the whole story, but she accepted him as a brother-in-law, while she stubbornly refused to call him, 'Ed'.

Edmund and Lucy went on loving each other as the years dragged on so that those first seven were scarcely more than a minute's worth of time; and they had one daughter, a girl, who they named Helen Susan Philippe, for her mother and his sister.

And so, you see, whether this story-this tale of love, betrayal, loss, and flickering lights-is a fairytale or not, well, that's up to the reader alone to discern.

-The End-

**AN: Reviews welcome (last chance for this fic!) **


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